


Dark Necessities

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (plus some other sex tags that i'll add/change if necessary), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Rape, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Butt Plugs, College age Sansa, Exhibitionism, F/M, Mutual pining and longing that takes them forever to accept, Nipple Clamps, Orgasm Denial, Public Sex, Spanking, angry fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 100,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Jeyne drags Sansa to an party one Saturday night. Unbeknownst to her, Sansa is shocked to find out it's not the typical college party she was expecting, but a high-class BDSM event.Sansa is about to leave when the sight of Joffrey makes her question the lengths she would go to be his.Even if it leads to lessons in "love" from an unknown man.





	1. lesson 0: revelation

**Author's Note:**

> [ Inspired by the book On His Terms by Sierra Cartwright.
> 
> This’ll be a nice little kinky story with some good old fashioned drama sprinkled in (first fic of mine that’s more sex-centric than plot/drama, so we’ll see how that goes lol). I’ll try and tag everything but if I miss anything or you think there’s something missing, let me know!
> 
> This chapter will be a bit (read: a lot) of exposition, and I didn't quite get to the level of sleazy Petyr as I originally planned. But I promise all the kinky stuff shall be worth the wait lol.
> 
> Oh, and before I forget. This is dedicated to users boredlikeaboss and playwhatgoeson for always giving me terrible encouragement and ideas. Enjoy! ;) ]

 

            Sansa was speechless.

            Jeyne invited her to this party (well, Jeyne’s _boyfriend_ was invited, and somehow Jeyne managed to worm her way to get him a plus one to his plus one). “It’s somewhere nice,” Jeyne said. “Really nice. I’ve been there once, and honestly, Sansa, if I could live there forever that’d be the dream.” She had a bit of a faraway look in her eyes. And then, after an entire weekend of convincing Sansa to go, of convincing Sansa to _lighten up_ and _take a break_ from all of the work she had this early in the semester already, Sansa relented with “Okay, fine, just to shut you up.” Jeyne added with a mischievous grin: _Oh, and dress nice but sexy_.

            So Sansa did. Or so she thought: the little black dress – with its low-lying neck settling between her breasts and its high-lying hem that fell above mid-thigh – to Sansa was scandalous enough. She had to go out and buy it, nothing in her college wardrobe was fit for whatever sort of _party_ Jeyne had in mind. Her friend from freshman year could have helped. Margaery, was her name. But it’d been a long while since they’ve spoken, mostly because of the workload Sansa was under. But this dress wasn’t too inexpensive or too slutty. And anywhere else, Sansa _definitely_ fit the skimpy definition. She could almost hear her mother chiding her, staring at her with disappointment writ in ocean-blue eyes.

            But here, now, standing with heeled feet just inside the foyer, Sansa felt ridiculously _over-dressed_.

            At least half of the partygoers wore something akin to her little black dress - something was modest enough to cover chest and lower. In that regard, Sansa felt relief that she wasn’t _too_ exposed. But for the other half – Sansa didn’t know _where_ to look.

            Men and women in lacy and silken _scraps_ of clothing that barely covered their privates. Or fine scraps of clothing conveniently worn to draw viewers’ eyes between legs. An entourage of serving men and women with black-and-white collars and scarce underthings (if they had any), hands filled with trays of amuse bouche and drinks. Both the partygoers and the servers had an arrangement of jewelry, too. Intricate weaves of necklaces, leather collars, thin bracelets of blues and reds and blacks. Everyone was half-dressed or completely naked, and no one seemed to notice.

            This was not at all the college party Sansa was expecting, not by a mile. This was something completely different.

            Sansa turned to Jeyne, her fear thinly-veiled in a whisper: “What in the seven hells kind of _party_ is this?” There were numerous other things Sansa wanted to berate her friend for, to question her friend about, but she couldn’t form the thoughts into anything remotely coherent.

            Jeyne laughed, leaning into her boyfriend’s side. “Oh, come on Sans! Lighten up! You’ve been so stressed out since you got to college, I figured you’d need a bit of a break. Bit of unwinding. Besides, it’s either _this_ or playing make-believe with a, uh… How old is he now? Seventeen?” She laughed again.

            True, it was either being dragged to her aunt’s house for little Robert’s birthday (a celebration that Sansa’s cousin _demanded_ her presence of. Sansa imagined it was because she was the only one _kind_ enough to put up with his childishness. He was already in high school but still demanded stories of Winged Knights from her. At least he’d stopped asking to suckle on her breasts before high school). Either another weekend of _that_ , or being dragged to… _this_. A woman dressed in fine lingerie walked past, dragging a large man behind her with a leash strapped to his collar. His muscles rippled as he followed on all fours. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder now if little Robert might not have been the lesser of two horrible parties.

            A pinch at her arm. Sansa swatted Jeyne’s hand. She saw a bracelet on her friend’s wrist, a thin, elegant band of crimson that matched fresh nail polish. Her boyfriend’s was of similar shape and elegance, but it was purple and white. Sansa looked into Jeyne’s soft brown eyes. “I suppose it _might_ be better, but you could have given me a little warning.”

            “You’d never have come if I did!” Jeyne was still laughing, pulling her boyfriend slowly into the throng of depravity. Sansa nearly grabbed Jeyne’s arm to pull her back and _plead_ to go. But she caught herself, steeled the embarrassment and fear fluttering in her stomach, and followed. Sansa glanced at the man whose arm was linked with Jeyne’s: taller than Jeyne (Jeyne was short, though, only a hair taller than Arya), but shorter than Sansa. Hair as dark as night, fingers latched on her sides, rough laughter following Jeyne’s softness. There were scratches along his jaw, some faded and some fresh. Sansa tried to remember his name but it eluded her. This was the first time she met him, she realized.

            “You’re right,” Sansa finally admitted as they approached one of the serving women and plucked flutes of alcohol. Sansa stared at the bubbles floating in the golden drink, trying not to focus on the large breasts of the nearly-naked woman. “I’m here, not in studio tonight, aren’t I?” _Here, instead of working on the project due next week. And getting started on that paper…_

            “It’s _always_ studio with you!” Jeyne shot back. The mirth in her laughter popped faster than the bubbles in her champagne. She took a sip before continuing: “Look, Sans. I love you, honest to gods. We’ve been best friends for _years_. I remember when you were _this_ big” – she dropped her hand down to her knee. “But honestly, you’ve been way too busy with your projects and your clubs and tutoring. You do _way_ too much, girl. Too much. And every year I feel like we’ve been drifting away. And I just… I just don’t want to lose my best friend.”

            Sansa bit the inside of her lip, trying not to let the accusations hurt her. Sansa _was_ focused on schoolwork, but there was a literal ton of work to do. It wasn’t _Sansa’s_ fault college was certainly one of the seven hells manifested. Studio itself was a nightmare of late-night coffee runs and making it through the day with fifteen-minute power naps. And then the community service club she was in, and the on-the-side writing tutoring she gave to underclassmen. It wasn’t _Sansa’s_ fault she was expected to be perfect.

            Sansa wanted to argue back but she didn’t. The crystal flute twirled between her fingers. She hoped the anger stayed out of her voice. A smile split her face: “I’m sorry. I _have_ been crazy busy with everything, I know. And I know we haven’t hung out as much as freshman year, and that’s definitely my fault. But maybe we can schedule some one-on-one girl time? Beach, shopping, stopping off at that amazing ice cream place off the Bay. Maybe during spring break?”

            Sansa wanted to _laugh_. Not at Jeyne, but at herself. At not being able to tell Jeyne off. At not being able to say _no_.

            Jeyne smiled, _clink_ ing their glasses together. “It’s a deal.”

            “Babe,” her boyfriend said, running his fingers down Jeyne’s arms. Sansa watched the movement, watched as goosepimples rose on her friend’s skin. Sansa couldn’t help the slight shiver she felt across her own arms. When he had ran a circuit up and down, up and down, and settled around Jeyne’s waist, he bent to suck on the joint of her neck. As he did, his eyes flashed towards Sansa. They were dark, darker than the night-black hair brushing against Jeyne’s cheek. And they swept across Sansa’s body with an almost _excited_ glean to them.

            Jeyne’s voice barely-contained her heady desire even as she addressed Sansa. “I’m going to go _deal_ with Ramsay. Are you okay on your own? Call if something happens and we’ll come get you, okay?”

            “Like you’ll hear it ringing over your screams,” Ramsay chimed in, biting at Jeyne’s neck, his hand running up inside the fabric of her short skirt. Jeyne sighed in pleasure.

            Sansa forced herself to look away.

            They left her alone with her thoughts, Ramsay’s laughter melding into the party. Alone, floating on flotsam amidst a sea of naked strangers heralded by sighs and moans from every direction.

            Another serving woman walked past and Sansa switched her empty flute for a full one. She hadn’t even realized she had finished the first, but the alcohol was her only comfort right now. The bubbles short-lived friends.

            She walked through the building, doing her best to avoid the leering gazes men and women shot her way. A few made remarks, one offered to help her out of that confining dress. But none of them touched her, none of them _forced_ her into anything, onto anything. And for that she prayed thanks to the gods.

            But the building itself and the grounds it stood on were beautiful. An eerie sort of beautiful.

            Sansa remembered Old Nan’s tales when she and her siblings were small: tales of a castle nearly as old as Winterfell but far larger, with towers soaring into the sky to touch the heavens. Soaring to the sky, a stairway for the gods to descend onto the earth if they so choose. And the lords and ladies that sat in the castle, hiding behind walls three feet thick, watched over Westeros. Communed with the gods, thought themselves higher than the rest. Old Nan said from the top of the tallest tower they could see the entire world – from the coldest reaches of the North down to the boot of Dorne, and even far across the Narrow Sea. Far enough to sea shadows lurking in the distance, growing with each passing second. Shadows with wings, flying towards the castle. Dragons – spewing fire and destruction upon the castle’s mighty towers and turning the impenetrable walls into glassy rubble. Screams were caught in throats as lords and knights crumbled into ash where they stood.

            No one’s set foot willingly into Harrenhal in decades.

            And yet, here she was. Here _dozens_ of people were, maybe a hundred, two hundred, enjoying the wickedness of human nature inside its halls and ruins. She wondered if they fucked atop the long-strewn ashes of the dead.

            They weren’t so much ruins, not most of it. Most of the broken towers stood high against the fiery sky, their silhouettes a jagged thing. The wall surrounding the grounds was left untouched, too. But one of the towers, the shortest one, was repaired in a smart combination of classical gothic – stone and arches and awesome monoliths – with the sleek modernity of steel and glass. Across the north and east walls was a long strip of windows, stretching from the grounds up to halfway where it merged into the stones. It was a patchwork thing, almost. But not crude like the stiches Arya made in the knees of her jeans. They were clean; they enhanced what was already there.

            And beyond the towers, both ruined and rebuilt, sat the blue waves of the God’s Eye. From where she stood on the second floor, Sansa could see the speck of the island over Harrenhal’s boundary wall. It sat as a shadow against the fading evening sky.

            It was beautiful. The landscape, the rebuilt tower. That she couldn’t deny, and Sansa would have thrilled in exploring the rest of Harrenhal. Would have thrilled at learning how the architects had seamlessly blended the glass into the jagged stones. She could spend hours, _days_ , wandering the grounds and exploring the ruins.

            A _slam_ beside her broke Sansa from her dream. She turned to see a woman hardly any older than her pressed against the window, her dark skin laced with red lines across her thighs and torso. Her arms were pinned above her head, her voice pleading to the gods for _more, Sir, please, I need it_. A man with only pants on was whispering in her ear, one hand a solid grasp on hers and the other teasing with his manhood. It strained against the fabric.

            Sansa stared. At the fresh marks on otherwise smooth skin. At the sighing moans of the woman, at the undulations of their hips in tune with one another. Sansa tore herself away, rushed away, feeling the blush creep across her entire body. She heard when the man finally gave in to the woman’s pleas, and Sansa had to fight to push her hands against her ears.

            She wasn’t a _child_. It shouldn’t bother her, a part of her said. Another part of her whispered in a voice echoing the beat in her veins: that she _liked_ it. The she was _jealous_ of that unknown woman. Sansa shushed it.

            She headed for the entrance and stood on the threshold, the cool breeze coming from the God’s Eye weaving its way in between the ruined towers. The moon was low in the dark canvas of sky, casting the entire grounds in silky darkness.

            That’s as far as she went. Sansa was stuck – physically, metaphorically, all of it. To run and run out of the property; to deal with whatever emotions were burning her veins; to just stand there. Jeyne had argued that since the party was far they should all carpool. Which at the time seemed a greater idea than being stuck in fifty miles of traffic alone. But now… Gods, she should have driven herself. All of that goading was probably part of the plan, too, to keep Sansa as oblivious to the _true_ nature of this alleged party. Gods knew Sansa wouldn’t have given it an inkling of thought if she knew what this place truly was.

            Sansa fished her phone out of her purse. It was five past eight, and the party (Jeyne said) was to go on till at least midnight. Later, maybe. It was someone’s birthday, and Jeyne’s boyfriend (Ramsay was his, Sansa remembered. She remembered dark eyes traveling the length of her neck, down the expanse of her exposed collarbones) managed to get them on the list.

            Any other party would have been fine. A keg-filled, drug-filled party of dumb college kids. Even her cousin’s would have been fine, which at this time Sansa judged she would be tucking Robert into bed with warm milk and stories of valor.

            But this party was just…not at all what she was expecting.

            She leaned against a cool column flanking the entrance, wanting to meld into the stone of the tower and disappear. She traced the line of contrasting stone spiraling its length. _I don’t belong here_ , she told herself.

            Off in the distance, between the arching shadows of the towers and the grass sprouting between rubble, Sansa saw figures moving in the dark. She heard them more than she saw them, faint outlines of limbs intertwined. Their voices carried in the cool breeze. Out in the open, with the gods above as witness to their depravity. Out in the open, with nothing to quiet the moans and screams of _more_.

            Sansa stared.

            “Where’s your bracelet?” came a voice behind her.

            Sansa turned, her heel catching on the smoothed stone of the steps. A hand grabbed her, steadied her to stand, and left. She mumbled a _sorry_ as she rested her own hand on a column to steady herself. Sansa could feel her heart beating – at the thrill of watching those unnamed persons enjoying themselves, at the fear of being caught in the action. And at the realization that she was here, in a den of wickedness, with thinly veiled lies between herself and her family up north.

            “Only registered guests are allowed here,” the voice continued. It was a man, but unlike the rest of the partygoers he was modestly dressed. “Especially for tonight’s festivities. Every guest has been registered beforehand, and each of them has the appropriate _ticket_. So,” he paused, “are you _allowed_ to be here?”

            Sansa had the momentary fear that she was about to be thrown out. Jeyne’s voice flittered into her mind: a voice saying _Don’t worry, you can come along it’s fine_. A voice that Sansa now thought she heard the lie of _it’s not actually fine_. She saw strips of color adorning Jeyne’s and Ramsay’s wrists, and the wrists of everyone else, she realized. Even the serving men and women. Everyone but hers. To be thrown out wasn’t the worst thought to be had since she stepped through Harrenhal’s surrounding walls. But the humiliation of it was something Sansa wasn’t sure she could endure. She looked past the man inside, looked at the half- and completely-naked people and saw their wrists adorned in different colors. Hers felt accusingly empty.

            Sansa turned back to this man, a quick glance at his wrists: nothing. “And where is yours?”

            He gave a small smile, but it didn’t contain any mirth. “As the _owner_ , I believe I can exercise a bit of rights. Besides, it would clash with my outfit.” Which was smart, Sansa saw: a suit of black with silver threads lining the edges. There was a pin stuck into a deep green tie. It was silver, but she couldn’t make out its shape.

            Sansa calmed herself. If he wanted her gone, he would have kicked her out by now, right? “Apologies. I’m here with a friend, two friends.” Her hand was pressing against the stone column, digging in until the tips of her fingers hurt. “They have bracelets, but I think they forgot to give me mine.”

            “Liar.”

            _Now’s when they’ll kick me out_ , she thought. She prepared for it, prepared to submit quietly and pray an Uber would pick her up all the way out here and drive her the fifty miles back to King’s Landing. The ache in her fingers was sure to break bone.

            “They’re for the different, er, _types_ , of people,” he began to explain. Sansa’s guard didn’t waver – perhaps he was waiting for the guards to come and whisk her out of the tower. He was just biding his time with words. “There’s red, for people unavailable for scening. Then combination of gender and type: blue, purple, and green for gender; white, grey, and black for type.” A flicker of his eyes to her throat (or so she thought). “What sort of bracelet did you register for?”

            Sansa tried to make sense of this _code_ , but couldn’t. “Purple and…white.” It came out more of a question than a statement.

            The man looked her up and down, but the gaze didn’t hold the same lecherousness as the ones before. He was… _assessing_ her. Assessing something _about_ her, not just the shape of her hips or the size of her breasts. “I don’t think so…”

            Sansa didn’t understand.

            He didn’t elaborate yet, motioning inside the foyer for a serving woman. Thin fingers plucking two flutes off the tray before the woman nodded, her eyes always focused on the floor, and left. He paused his hand midair as it moved to hand Sansa the drink, his eyes traveling quickly over her body. “How old are you?”

            “Twenty-one,” Sansa lied. She wouldn’t be twenty-one for a few weeks, but this _stranger_ didn’t need to know. She thought to pass herself off as older, twenty-three or –four perhaps, but Sansa wasn’t sure if she could. He’d already seen through all of her lies so far.

            He only gave a _hmm_ before handing it to Sansa. She took it, twirling it between her fingers, not feeling steady enough for drink.

            “And what brings you into the BDSM scene?”

            “The…” The _what_?

            The drink paused on its way down the flute and into his throat. He removed the glass from his lips, resting it against his chest. He looked at her, head cocked, lips turned in a smirk filled with curiously and uncertainty.

            “Surely you’ve at least _heard_ of it? Or of that ridiculous _Fifty Shades_ series? Which, between you me, you’re better off ignoring completely and reading the Wikipedia article on the scene as a whole. You’d actually learn something that way.”

            Sansa wanted to blurt out _Of course I’ve heard of it_ , and _Of course I muddled my way through the first few chapters_ (which she was glad she didn’t admit to). But it wasn’t the _what_ of BDSM that set Sansa’s face into a confused thing. Rather, it was the realization that if _this_ is where Jeyne wanted to bring Sansa for months, and it’s where Jeyne had been before… Then Jeyne was into BDSM, for months or years, and Sansa never knew.

            Sansa saw Jeyne, eight years old, snowflakes in her hair and cheeks red from the cold Northern winters. Jeyne, twelve years old, freaking out about Sansa’s first awkward kiss with a boy behind the stables of Winterfell. Jeyne, thirteen years old, and awkwardly recounting her own fumbling with a boy in the kitchens.

            She tried to picture her best friend – shoved against the glass window, stark naked with red marks covering her skin – and _asking_ for Ramsay to hurt her. Because she _wanted_ it.

            She couldn’t see it.

            “If it isn’t the _man_ of the hour…”

            He said it in hushed tones, breaking Sansa out of her thoughts. There was another smile to his face, but there wasn’t any kindness in his words. Sansa wondered if there ever was.

            But he was no longer staring at her. She felt the attention of everyone shift into the tower, towards the grand staircase in the center of the main room. And towards the man striding with confident steps down.

            Sansa’s breath caught.        

            _No way…_

            People moved to crowd around the man, some still in the midst of their debauchery. Sansa clambered onto the threshold, staring over the tops of the naked partygoers. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was her eyes playing tricks on her, playing her like the child she was.

            But there was no mistaking the golden skin and hair and that smile that once made her insides melt.

            Sansa’s heart exploded in excitement and confusion.

            Joffrey.

            There was a woman, too, kneeling beside him. He was saying something, his words drowned by the heavy thrum in her ears. The woman beside Joffrey had creamy skin and soft brown waves, but Sansa saw nothing else. She couldn’t focus on anything but Joffrey – on the way the lights bounced off his golden curls, on the words she caught snippets of. His voice (even in jumbled strings) was melodious.

            They were shorter, the curls. Shorter than the first day of her elective freshman year. Shorter than the most recent profile picture on his Facebook. All those years ago, Joffrey had smiled at her, and Sansa couldn’t help but stare at him throughout the entire class. Couldn’t help but picture him in those cheesy romance novels as a knight fit for a mighty stallion and silvered armor. And then: her, the princess in need of rescuing by the noblest knight.

            Sansa’s face flushed.

            “A pity you aren’t into this lifestyle.”

            She turned to the man standing beside her, momentarily forgotten. He was still staring inside, still with that almost-smile plastered on his face. In the light that was dimmed for Joffrey’s entrance coming in from the foyer, Sansa could make out the grey that lingered in the man’s hair.          

            “Joffrey is…a bit _notorious_ for his scenes. He likes girls that can play rough, that can live and breathe this sort of lifestyle. A pity you aren’t one of them…”

            Sansa felt like he was _goading_ her – except it was true. Aside from those few pages of _Fifty Shades_ she read years ago, she hadn’t experimented with her romantic or sexual life. She thrived on cheesy romance novels and romantic movies, she wasn’t ashamed to admit. Thrived on those late-night weekends in high school staying up with Jeyne: cliché movies and a big bowl of popcorn.

            It had been _years_ since that last happened.

            Still – beside Joffrey, Sansa saw the creamy skin of an unknown woman. And in place of brown tresses, Sansa saw auburn. Sansa saw her lift her head, look into Joffrey with eyes as blue as the God’s Eye. Sansa saw _herself_ , with all of the attention and adoration, all of that love and desire focused on _her_. Those green eyes focused on her, those golden curls tangled in her fingers, those soft lips pressed against hers and her body. It was a school-girl crush. A ridiculous crush, three years old, keeping her heart pumping erratically as she stared at Joffrey. Stared as he ushered the brown-haired woman further into the room, a resounding _smack_ to her ass echoing even outside.

            Sansa felt it on her own.

            There was a throb deep inside Sansa. An _ache_ that she had kept at bay for years. A dull thing she hadn’t time to deal with, what with the mountain of work drowning her physically and mentally.

            A dull ache that was burning, burning. She felt it run in her veins now, not at all dull. There, present, _aching_ to be felt. All she had to do to win Joffrey’s affection was to submit to him.

            “Tell you what,” the man said, as if answering the question in her mind. She heard him fishing in his suit pocket for something. “If you genuinely _are_ interested, give me a call. I’m sure I could help teach you a thing or two about this lifestyle, and how to win over the heart of someone like _him_.”

            Sansa tore her eyes away from the scene inside, her mind and body at different desires. She wanted Joffrey, she wanted to be _his_. But this whole thing – did she really see herself bending over to be spanked, or fucking outside for all the world and gods to see, or something _worse_ \- and getting off on it?

            Her thoughts ran back to Jeyne. If someone like sweet, naïve Jeyne could find pleasure and happiness in this sort of thing, then maybe…

            Sansa stared at the man again, his eyes dark and focused on her face. In his fingers was a business card. She reached for it, feeling the warmth of his fingertips against hers. He didn’t immediately let go, nor did she immediately tug for him to release. If her whole body wasn’t already in a confused turmoil, she might have recognized that flutter, that spark of electricity between their fingers. That wary want to keep her fingers there, beside his Or that wary want to feel them crawling over her. Might have, in a different time. But Sansa pulled, and the man let go.

            She stared at the front. Crisp, black letters on white:

            _Petyr Baelish. The Mockingbird. +0 555 223 5474_

            Sansa flipped the card over. The back was a rich emerald, so dark in the dim light she thought it was black. And against it a white outline of a bird – the same silhouette of the shape on his tie pin.

            When she looked up, the man was gone.

            When she looked back inside the tower, Joffrey was completely out of sight. She could hear him, could hear the revelry in his honor. Could hear the din of ecstasy grow within and without the tower.

            Sansa wandered the grounds, her feet bringing her to the edge of the property, resting atop a large stone at the base of the wall. She stared out into the God’s Eye, watching the stars twinkle against the calm waters.

            She flipped and flipped and flipped the business card in her fingers until the edges started to grow soft.

            It was nearly midnight when her phone buzzed. Jeyne.

            “Are you ready?” She sounded breathless. Sansa could hear the smile.

            “Yeah. I’ll meet you at the car.”

            It was too dark for Sansa to make out the new red marks on her friend’s skin, too dark to make out the state of her friend’s clothes or hair. Ramsay drove in silence. Jeyne nuzzled into Sansa’s side, happy and content and smelling of sin.

            Sansa didn’t realize that they arrived back into King’s Landing, or that she had gotten back to her apartment, or that she had routinely peeled off her dress and make up and snuggled into bed.

            She thought of Joffrey. Of the wickedness she had only _gleamed_ of in that tower filled with depravity. Of the man with a crooked smile that offered assistance. Of the smile on her friend’s face.

            She thought of the party she _should_ have gone to instead of lying to her family. Of the projects and homework that she would need to start early tomorrow to finish by Monday. Of the tutoring sessions she needed to schedule, and the club meeting on Thursday that still needed ironing out.

            The world was a crushing weight. It dragged her into an all-consuming tiredness. And yet, the weight kept sleep from her.

            It was in the wee hours of morning when Sansa’s mind drifted into the quiet darkness of dreams. And still, that restless, nagging voice inside her mind kept whisper to her. Still it whispered even long after she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Pretended the voice didn’t exist.

            Still, it murmured in her ear: _You liked it._

 


	2. lesson 1: denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wow, I didn’t expect this fic to get this much love already!!! Thank you so so much to everyone for reading and commenting :D I love all of you!
> 
> Little bit more exposition this round, with Sansa slowly sinking into the black hole of wickedness ;)) Enjoy~ ]

 

            _Fuck_.

            Sansa hissed under her breath, the sharp sting on her finger drawing her attention. The blade clattered on her desk, rolling rolling before she snapped to grab it with her other hand. Luckily it didn’t slice another gash. She watched the thin line grow redder, watching the blood ooze out in a slow determined trickle. Pale skin flushed around it.

            This wasn’t the first time this week Sansa cut her finger, or tripped on a stair, or smacked her shoulder on a corner (she hadn’t ran straight into a tree or door yet, which was a blessing). Six days now. And each day had more missteps or collisions – a fact that Sansa couldn’t deny, not with the cut a glaring testament. Exhibit number, what, X? Y? She might have long passed the common alphabet by now.

            The little line of blood welled. It was full, almost bursting into a mess over the foam core she had been so carefully cutting. So bright against her pale skin, so noticeably red. Sansa finally brought her finger to her lips, lapping over the sharp metallic taste of her. She kept it there long after the cut had stopped bleeding. She kept it there long after the image of wrapping her mouth over someone else’s fingers invaded her mind. Over something else bigger. Running up and down the length of her finger with her tongue, Sansa couldn’t stop the images flooding her mind: of dim lights, of bodies pressed together in every conceivable position, of moans echoing even out on the shore of the God’s Eye.

            As if she didn’t know _why_ she had been mentally out of it for a week.

            “Again?”

            Sansa turned, removing her finger from her mouth and quickly wiping it dry on her skirt. She hoped flushed skin was on the cut and not plain on her face. “Oh, Harry, hey. I didn’t know you were still working tonight.”

            Harry shrugged. He had his arms leaning over the wall separating Sansa’s desk with her neighbor, resting his chin in the crook of his crossed wrists. His sandy hair looked almost brass in the fluorescent lighting. He smiled. “Eh, had an idea that I wanted to get down before the weekend. Don’t know how it’ll translate from the test model to the real thing, but that’s assuming Olenna doesn’t shit on it on Monday.”

            Sansa nodded. She was taking slow, measured breaths to stop the fluttering in her heart, and that persistent ache lower. Gods, she was a _mess_. “Gotcha. So long as Olenna doesn’t make you spackle your pavilion…”

            He pulled back against the wall, giving her a jokingly exasperated look. “Oh gods, don’t _ever_ say that word to me again. I’ll die happy if I never see that shit again.” A laughter – it was sweet, even with that tinge of annoyance. Not at Sansa, no. Last semester Olenna had _assured_ Harry that covering the cardboard in drywall spackle would make the model cleaner and nicer. (And mind you this was evening the night before the project review). So Harry ran to the hardware store and bought a bucket and spent hours lathering it on. Except Olenna was wrong – or at least, Olenna was wrong about Harry’s ability to layer that thick goop. Not quite like frosting a cake, but Harry wasn’t great at that either. After deliberating with everyone, all of whom were still up finishing, he threw it away and started reconstructing his model at three in the morning.

            Sansa couldn’t help but laugh too. Looking back, it _was_ absolutely hilarious. But she was glad her craft was good enough (great, maybe the best of her studio, if she wasn’t being modest). When she looked back at him, Harry had his head tilted, and his smile seemed softer.

            For a few minutes there was a soft silence between the two of them while Sansa continued cutting the foam. Someone else was in studio, too, their music drifting down the hall. Harry began humming along to a song she didn’t recognize. He wasn’t standing at her wall now, taking up the seat beside her and scrolling on his phone. Sansa glanced at him once before devoting herself to her work.

            As if on cue, Sansa’s stomach rumbled when she had finished cutting out the general shape of her idea.

            Harry looked up from his phone, a sheepish grin on his face. Except his stomach growled, too, as if in response to Sansa’s. She was glad they both didn’t start growling at one another. “Wanna swing by the Hub and grab dinner? Unless you plan on eating foam core again.”

            “Yeah, that sounds good.” She capped her blade, arranging her supplies inside her desk. “And gods, I take a bit out of cardboard _once_ and you guys never let me live it down…”

            Harry laughed again. And Sansa was glad for him. For the ease in their friendship, for the fact that she wasn’t alone.

            The sun had long set when they left studio. Campus was always emptier on Friday nights save for the groups of students on their way to parties. They were always easy to spot: loud conversations, feet swerving back and forth, smelling of either booze or pot. The Hub was even emptier, only a handful of students sitting throughout the space. Sansa and Harry parted to grab different foods, meeting up at a table by the wall so he could charge his phone. “What, you’ve got a hot date tonight?” Sansa joked.

            “The only hot date I want is with my bed.”

            Sansa nodded in agreement.

            As they headed out to their apartments, Harry asked, “Got any plans for the weekend? Or same old, same old?”

            Sansa (though she was loath to admit it) was dreading the weekend. Not because she had to make up Robert’s party that she missed (he was _upset_ the whole night, Arya complained. Her sister hadn’t been lucky enough to skip out. But the little Robert (not so little anymore) demanded his cousin’s appearance soon. Sansa wasn’t looking forward to that). Nor was she upset because Sansa told Robert she had a slew of midterms she had to study for, or a twenty-page paper she had been putting off (she didn’t. It was still the first month of the semester, and if any professor assigned a twenty-page paper due that early Sansa would just drop out entirely).

            Of course, Sansa might have _exaggerated_ how much work she actually had to do last weekend. Her parents had been kind enough to give her a pass. Still, there had been a pile of work awaiting Sansa all throughout Sunday (taking her long into the late January night). And Sansa did not hint one bit at the other party she is had been dragged to, not to Robert or Arya or Harry or anyone.

            A flash of gold flitted through her mind. A twinge of _longing_ pulled her heart northward.

            Sansa tried and tried and failed to get that image from her mind. Of Joffrey standing in the center if the crowd. Of the woman before him - who Sansa now couldn't see as anyone else but _herself._ Red hair and pale skin and looking up at him with absolute devotion.

            Nor could she forget that _offer_.

            She could feel its weight in her pocket. It burned into her skin, whispering wicked words even in her sleep. The edges were worn soft. Sansa had it tucked into the back of her phone case. She didn’t trust leaving it in her purse or bag or even stuck in the back of her desk. Paranoid that someone would find it. Paranoid that someone would know what she was.

            Six days she debated his offer. Six days she played those false memories: Joffrey descending the stairs with her awaiting him below; Joffrey pinning her against the cold glass, teasing her and asking her to _beg_ for him; Joffrey taking her under the stars with the gods as witness to her depravity.

            Gods, Sansa was a mess.

            But calling that man - Petyr Baelish, she could see the neat writing scrawling in her mind, along with a glint if silver. Calling and asking for _help_ in wooing Joffrey - that would mean _admitting_ what she saw on Saturday _did_ send sparks up her fingers and toes and electrifying every inch of her. Would mean _admitting_ getting fucked like that turned her on.

            “Sansa?”

            She shook her head. Her heart was a hammer against her ribs. She had to take a few breaths of the biting January air first to calm the raging storm in her. “Yeah, same here. The only thing I’ve got planned is sleeping in and studying. Maybe some Netflix. The usual.”

            Harry’s brows were furrowed. How long had she been smoving on autopilot? How long had she been in her mind, drawing up not-at-all-sweet pictures, hearing those moans and smelling the tart scent of sex? Too long - they were already off campus, threading through the streets. It was a miracle she hadn’t run into something or someone.

            “Didn't you have a thing this week?” Harry continued, electing to ignore the weirdness that even Sansa couldn't comprehend. “With, um, gods I always forget the name, the community service club?”

            Sansa froze. Fuck. She had forgotten entirely. To send out the flyers, to pass them out, to go to the meeting yesterday.

            All week she threw herself into studio trying to push away these wicked thoughts plaguing her. But they followed her, never caring for time or place or propriety.

            “Sansa? What's up?”

            What _was_ up? Never once had Sansa forgotten her duties, and now this. She fished out her phone, scrambling to find her email and –gods, thank the gods – someone had picked up her slack. They sent her confused emails yesterday (and later she saw she had missed a call. She couldn't for the life of her remember what she was as doing at the time of the meeting). There was the flyer, and there was the chain of members that volunteered to work tomorrow. And at the bottom, so long in the strong of replies, was a message sent only to her: _where were you yesterday?? Are you sick? And you gonna show up tomorrow?_

            A car honked.

            Harry carried her out of the middle of the street while Sansa tapped in her reply: _Yes sorry I came down with something on Wednesday. Bad food? Lol. Thank you so much for running through meeting and everything! I'll buy you lunch if you want. And yes I'll be there tomorrow!_

            “King’s Landing Tutoring Program,” Sansa finally answered after she hit _send_.

            “Oh yeah.” That was all Harry said in reply. He didn't seem bothered with the name of a club anymore, but rather with why Sansa was so out of it. Surely he had to have noticed the multitude of times throughout the week when Sansa had been away (fifty miles north, in a rebuilt tower by the lake).

            But Harry was a good a friend and didn't pry. Even during those long nights spent in studio, the room filled with stale coffee and vending machine snacks and glue – when people’s inhibitions were shot with delirium at three, four five in the morning. Even then Harry kept questions stuck on his tongue in his mouth. But now, maybe if he had asked what was wrong and why she had been so out of place, maybe Sansa would have shattered their easy friendship and told him this throbbing secret she wasn’t even sure about. Maybe.

            Sansa's apartment came first, and she waved Harry goodbye, watching him continue down the streets until his body was blocked from view with all the cars parked against the curb.

            There was a breeze that flew through Sansa’s hair. It was cold, prickling her skin into a light coat of goosepimples. It almost remminded Sansa of home – that briskness in the air that flowed throughout King’s Landing. They were so close to the ocean here, too, and she had gone a few times before she became loaded down with school work. But the air that permeated the nation’s capital would never be _home_ , no matter how cold it could gust. It always carried that distinct tang of salt and the greasy scent of bodies packed tightly together in the city. Almost like Winterfell, but not quite.

            There was a couple making out on the stairwell that Sansa had to squeeze past. Public displays of affection were always an awkward thing for third-parties. And Sansa used to always blush – at gentle holding of hands, at sly smiles, at pecks on cheeks or even full-out kissing. Used to make Sansa swoon with embarrassment, and envy. But now, their bodies pressed with no gap of air between them, their hands resting on their shoulders, them just swaying in each others’ company with lips the briefest press. There was that incessant wicked voice that whispered: _that's it?_

            Sansa made her way up. Just as she slotted her key into the door it flung open. Sansa jumped back, keys poised in hand, ready to strike.

            “Oi, Sansa, watch it!”

            Sansa lowered her arm, a breath loose in the air. Only her sister. Dressed in her usual worn jeans and ratty shirt, hair flying every which way. “You're the one that needs to watch where you swing doors open.”    

            “And you're the one that needs to _not_ stand in front of them.” Arya huffed.

            Sansa gave another pass at her sister attire as she moved to make room for her in the hallway. The jeans only had holes in the knees. The shirt was falling off one shoulder because it was designed that way and not because she tore the collar. Her hair smelled like shampoo.

            “You going out?” Sansa asked.

            Arya turned, walking backwards. Her feet were silent on the concrete. “Duh. It's Friday. You should go out too?” It came out as a question. Almost like Arya meant to say: _you're almost twenty-one and you crash out on eight on Fridays like Old Nan_.

            But Sansa didn't have the energy to go out, not ever since...well, since she started college. Every week brought more work and more tutoring and projects – she hardly had the time to sleep let alone go out by second semester freshman year. Those few trips to the beach or stores or aimlessly wandering through the city were a fluke.

            “The night's still young,” Sansa said.

            “Yeah, and apparently you're not.” And Arya was gone.

            Sansa leaned over the railing, a perfect view of the front of the apartment. That crisp breeze was colder and saltier up here. Below, she saw Arya half-jog along the sidewalk before stopping before a shadow. The shadow bent down, crept towards her sister. Sansa didn't worry – it was Gendry. He moved to give Arya a noogie but she was too quick, pining his head under her arm and rubbing her fist against his head until he cried uncle. Sansa couldn't help but laugh as she headed into the apartment. Nothing to worry about. Besides, if it _was_ someone dangerous, Arya could whoop their ass with both hands tied behind her back.

            Inside: silence. First semester was at least filled with the quiet comfort of her sister. Then halfway through she met Gendry (who she was secretive about. All Sansa managed to eke out if Arya was he was born in the city, he worked part time in the campus wood shop, and he couldn't catch up to her during impromptu tag). Arya was sullen about having to go to college here, sullen about having to share an already small place with her sister. But that moodiness faded away as the weeks went on. Even during winter break Arya had something to look forward to down south.

            All Sansa had waiting in this city were sleepless nights and mountains of work.

            She pulled out her phone, debating whether to text Jeyne or not. Gods, it _had_ been forever since they hung out. Sansa hovered her fingers over the keyboard, debating what to say. _Hey, I know it's last minute but want to grab something to eat?_ Even though Sansa had already eaten with Harry not an hour ago. _Hey, hope you're doing well. Did you want to head to the stores this weekend and shop for spring break?_ Except it was still January. _Did you want to study this weekend?_ But they didn't share any classes, and Sansa (she realized) didn't even know what her friend chose to major in.

            _Hey, about that thing you dragged me to last weekend–_ Sansa didn't even finish that thought. Mostly because whenever she remembered Jeyne at the party, Sansa pictured Ramsay’s hands running up and down her friend, trailing beneath the thin fabric of her dress. And more than that, that dark, wild hunger in his eyes as he stared at Sansa.

            She couldn't deny that Jeyne’s boyfriend unnerved her.

            Minutes passed by. Sansa could almost count them off with the steady beat of her heart.

            She sighed and closed the app. She was a terrible friend, or at least not a very good one. Sansa couldn't remember when that happened. Years of childish games and gossiping up north, and now – they were practically strangers.

            Sansa tossed her phone onto her bed, wanting only to take a shower and snuggle into the blankets with a book or Netflix. Except the phone missed the bed by at least a mile.

            It hit the edge, bouncing off and whacking against her nightstand before falling with a heavy _thunk_. The case popped off, and Sansa prayed there wouldn't be cracks in the screen.

            “Gods dammit,” she muttered at herself. The screen was fine, thankfully, but there was a dent in the top corner. Sansa fumbled to get the case back on over the corner, and it fit if she tugged on it _just_ the right way. It took at least a minute of silent swears and pinching her fingers.

            She _placed_ it on her bed this time, staring at it for a few seconds in case it decided to jump up and off the bed on its own. It didn't. Sansa rummaged through her dresser for clean clothes.

            Her foot caught something. She lifted it, the sole facing upwards.

            Stuck on it was a small slip paper of deep emerald. Even in the light of her nightstand lamp Sansa could make out the white threads of the bird. She didn't even need the light – her mind and fingers had traced the shape over and over in those hours of deliberation.

            Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, her clothes beside her, and flipped the business card between her fingers. She'd done this countless times over the week, the motion itself had become almost relaxing. But the _understanding_ of what this card held (beyond a name and number) was what kept Sansa tossing and turning day and night.

            It was a _promise_. A hand reaching to _help_ her.

            Perhaps Sansa thought sleeping on the offer would make it easier to deny it with a _sorry this isn't really my thing._ Maybe that's why she'd been avoiding Jeyne, too. Avoiding everything that could prove she wasn't the sweet, perfect daughter she always had been. She always was supposed to be

            Yet even in forced ignorance, those dreams haunted her.

            Flip. A field of dark emerald, a white bird standing proudly in the center. Flip. Written in clean black letters: a name, a number, a promise.

            Sansa wasn't sure when the phone reappeared in her hand. Wasn't sure when it unlocked or when the app promoted her for the number.

            A deep breath.

            Sansa almost hung up on the first ring. Worms of worry ate away at her stomach until there was plenty of room for butterflies to multiply and linger. Could she do this? Could she honestly admit to a stranger that she _was_ turned on? Could she honestly ask a stranger to help her find out what made her body squirm and ache with wanton need so she could win over a boy that might not even remember her name?

            To ask a complete stranger to be punished and fucked, over and over and over?

            She pressed her thighs together. Gods, she hated that her body was reacting to those questions. It was improper on every conceivable and inconceivable level.

            Sansa didn't hear it at first. But there it was again: a soft, curious voice floating into her ear.

_Just hang up and tear the card to shreds,_ her mind was whispering. And that voice again, countering: _you would have done that already, unless you wanted this._

            “Hello?”

            A pause. Was that her voice or his?

            She could still hang up.

_Do it._

_Don't._

            “Who is this?”

            There was a hint of irritation in his voice. A prank caller, he must think. A wrong number. A child asking for something she didn’t truly understand.

            “Hi.”

_Hi_? She wanted to smack herself.

            But the dial tone wasn't playing. He hadn't hung up yet, not yet.

            “Hi,” he said back.

            Sansa could hear him settling down somewhere, a chair perhaps. Sansa’s body was too tense to do anything else but keep herself upright and breathing.

            There were a few seconds of silence where she realized she never gave him her name at the party. To him, she was just another naïve girl way out of her comfort zone. She could still hang up. “Um, hi. Again. It's Sansa from last Saturday.”

            As if he'd remember.

            “Sansa, is it?” She thought she heard the squeak of a chair leaning back. Imagined him running fingers along the length of his jaw. “Remind me: is that the name of the beautiful woman with red hair wearing that fuck-me-senseless dress?” She almost fell off the bed. “Sa-n-sa.”

            He was testing out her name, tasting the syllables in slow drawls. Sansa caught the hint of an accent as he said it. She hadn't caught that in the din of music and moans last week.

            It was still early – Sansa could still hang up. Delete the number and throw away the card.

            “Yes.”

            “Any particular reason you'd be calling me this late on a Friday night?”

_Hang up already._

            “Yes, I… I was… I had been thinking about what you said earlier.”

            “Remind me what it was we talked about? What you wanted from me?” He knew – Sansa could practically _hear_ the smile on his face.

            There was no beating around the bush, no allusions. He was going to make Sansa flat out admit why she had finally relented and called, and was prepared to wait all night if it took Sansa that long to dredge up the courage.

            She took a deep breath. Her fingers had been picking at the business card. The corner wasn’t much of a corner anymore.

            “I was wondering if you could help me.” A pause. “I… I would like your help in trying to, erm, seduce Joffrey.” Gods it sounded so weird voiced in the open and not confined to the wicked whisper in her mind.

            There was a long silence. Sansa would have thought he had hung up or the gods intervened and dropped her call were it not for the faintest breaths she could make out on the receiver. It was in those endless seconds Sansa realized how tightly she was pressing her phone against her cheek.

            Finally, he spoke. “What at the party made you wet?”

            “I... “ _What?_

            “Sansa, the first thing you need to understand about getting serious in this sort of lifestyle is an open relationship. With each other, about each other. What things each of you like and dislike, whether sexual or not. It's more than blindfolds and whips and whatever you _think_ it might be. I would have thought you to be the type to do some googling beforehand.”

            She blinked.

            “Now, Sansa, I'm not going to ask you again. What things did you see – or things you've thought of – that gets your cunt wet?”

            Gods.

            She did not prepare to have this conversation, least of all not now.

            There was only silence on the other end, and even in it Sansa could make out the faint wisps of his breath. He wasn't going to ask her again, or speak again, until she answered and answered honestly. Or if she just hung up the phone.

            Sansa didn't even know _where_ to begin or end.

            “I… I saw a couple, on the upper floor. They were having sex. The woman was pressed against the glass. And her arms were bound. But she was moaning and sounded so happy, so content, and the man hadn't even put, erm, himself in yet.” Her words grew fainter and fainter with each sentence. Sansa squeezed her legs tighter. She could smell the hint of her own arousal, and for a second she worried he could too.

            “But,” she continued. “I… I think I might like the blindfold and whips and things. And other stuff. I guess I won't know until I try.”

            A pause. “Good. Thank you, Sansa. That wasn't so hard, now was it?” She wanted to argue but didn’t. “Now one more question, and answer honestly. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you. How many times have you had sex?”

            “That's improper!” Sansa blurted out. She hadn't meant to, her hand slapping over her mouth too late.

            “Yes, some might consider it improper. But this is the modern age, Sansa. No one worth a damn gives a fuck who you fuck.” He wasn't...mad? Usually people expected _compliance_ from her, expected _obedience_. “But,” he went on, not even noticing the confusion in her head, “it would be helpful for me to understand you and your experiences. Like a sculptor analyzing marble, and all that. So I can understand your limits and what you know and what you still need to learn. I imagine there’s a lot in that last bit.”

            That...did make sense. From a logical point of view.

            “I've kissed a few boys before,” Sansa finally admitted. “And one of them shoved his hands under my bra and up my dress. After he insisted I, erm, give him a handjob.”

            “Did either of you come?”

            “I… don't remember.”

            “So I take it he did and you didn't?”

            “Maybe. It was a long while ago.”

            “I see. Thank you for telling me.”

            Sansa never told anyone about that, not even Jeyne. A failed attempt at courting during prom, and Sansa was relieved the boy had backed off after she rubbed him through his pants. She was luckier that he didn't spread rumors about her – anything like that reaching her parents’ ears, and they never would have allowed her to go to King’s Landing for college. To be stuck up North for the rest of her life…

            But it was nice getting that off her chest, in a way. Nice to be…honest.

            “Now, Sansa, are you certain you want this? There will be a lot of work if I'm to train you in how to be a beautiful and responsive submissive. For Joffrey.” That last part sounded like an afterthought.

            Did she?

            She hadn’t even had a _proper_ introduction into the world, and now Sansa had to choose whether to fling herself headfirst into a pit of depravity. Or to wonder forever how _good_ she truly was.

            This was it: now or never.

_Yes._

_No._

_I don’t know._

            “Yes.”

            Again she heard a smile. “Good. First lesson, Sansa. First of many. As a sub, you'll be expected to be perfect and poised, to submit to your Dom because you _want_ to please him. And they’ll be happy in providing you with whatever gets you off. It’s very much a give-and-take balance between both parties. Also, depending on who your Dom is, he or she will expect you to address them as such. I can't say for sure I know what Joffrey prefers, but under during our lessons, I expect you to address me as Sir. You can use Master, I know some Doms prefer that. Out of lessons I will like you to call me Petyr, if you prefer. Do you understand?”

            “Yes.” And to test it out: “Sir.” It felt odd coming from her tongue, sat heavy in the air before her. Not _weird_ odd. She'd addressed plenty of teachers and supervisors and the like by ma'am or sir. This was just…different.

            Again that smile, a smirk lacing the lilt of Petyr’s words. “Now for your first _actual_ lesson, Sansa. If you're wearing anything, take it off. Put your phone on speaker as you do it and let me know when you've finished.”

            Sansa didn't move.

            “Oh, and one more thing. Are you familiar with safe words?” When she didn't respond (still in disbelief at the _order_ ), Petyr continued. “It’s a word that lets me know I’ve pushed you too far, or that something absolutely terrifies you or you can’t go on. It can be any word or phrase that you wish. Most people typically use something they dislike, like a food or a phobia, but it's up to you. Do you have anything in mind?”

            Sansa licked her lips. The idea of the safe word was a foggy thing she thought she'd heard of. But mostly Sansa was shaking at the fact that this conversation was happening. That she had swallowed her pride and asked for help.

            “No, Sir. I'll come up with something later.”

            “That's fine, Sansa. For now we can use _pause_ if there is anything you aren't sure about or if something I've asked of you makes you uncomfortable and you'd like to talk it out. And _halt_ or _stop_ if something is wrong or you physically or mentally can't go on. In that case I will stop whatever it is I'm doing and assess your condition. Do you understand?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. There's other ways to express how you're feeling, like traffic lights – green, yellow, red – or somesuch. Now, Sansa.” Another brief pause where she heard the tell tale _creak_ of Petyr leaning back in a chair. Sansa wondered if he was as comfortable with this whole situation as she was uncomfortable. “I've given you an order. If you need to talk it through, use _pause_. If you realize this isn't the sort of thing you'd want to dive into, use _halt_ and our lessons will end tonight. If not, if you feel comfortable with beginning your lessons, then do as you were told.”

            This was it – the final out. And it wasn't Sansa’s brain that was giving her the choice to leave. To leave and pretend that all of this was a farce concocted by the lingering ache in her body over the week.

            An ache that yearned for golden curls and shining green eyes and the soft smile she could still picture, even years later.

            Sansa set her phone down gently on her nightstand, remembering to turn it on speaker first. Her fingers were trembling with the buttons on her coat, with the laces of her shoes. The only thing that broke that heavy silence was her short breaths and the sliding of fabric over skin. Several times Sansa glanced at her phone to make sure it was still on. She wondered if he heard her undressing. If he heard the raucous beat of her heart, hammering away at the part of her mind that was still screaming to _stop_.

            She wondered if he was imagining her naked.

            The cover of her bed was cool against the fire that raged through her veins, that seeped out onto her skin. Sansa stared at the shadows on her ceiling. Listened to the rumble of cars and the trail of voices out in the city.

            Breathe in. Breathe out.

            In.

            Out.

            “I'm ready. Sir.”

            Three heartbeats and Petyr responded: “Good, sweetling. Now, spread your legs, and think of all the things you saw and liked last week as you finger yourself.”

            “I…”

            “Yes? You ‘never masturbate’, was that it? Someone who's never gotten themselves off but who's just asked me for help – I don’t think so.”

            Sansa’s cheeks flushed. “No, Sir. Sorry.” Honesty – Petyr wanted, _expected_ honesty from her, regardless of how embarrassing it made her. To soothe him, she asked, “How would you like me to get off? With just my fingers?” And: “Sir.”

            There was a short, breathy laugh from her phone. “If that's how you usually do it, then yes. Any which way is fine.”

            Sansa could feel her heartbeat throughout her entire body. That constant thrumming, from her head to her toes. She wouldn't be surprised if the entire apartment, if the entire building was resonating with her.

            Slowly, Sansa brought her hands to her breasts, her nipples already peaked. The briefest brush with her thumbs sent a shiver down her spine, straight to the throbbing between her legs. Eyes closed – remembering dark skin laced with red; remembering the timbre of moans that were as silky as they were rough; remembering the way the man held the woman’s hands, and ran his free fingers across her skin, over her breasts and into her core. And finally, _finally_ , after begging and aching for seconds, minutes, hours – finally he pressed his thick member into her and elicited the loudest sighs of pure pleasure.

            Sansa’s breathing filled her own ears. Her fingers ran atop her breasts, along her sides, her stomach, trailing up and down the inside of her thighs. It was a wonderful _torture_.

            More details of that night filled Sansa’s mind. Of people half-naked and people completely exposed, fucking, getting off on others watching, getting off on watching others. In twos and threes and fours, inside and out – a den of complete depravity and pleasure. She remembered trails of other sounds – flesh striking flesh, screams and moans blurring into a single sound.

            Sansa dipped her fingers inside her. A gasp, an awakening of that deep, coiled need that was aching to be released.

            _Stop._

            The voice faded into the din in her mind, into the breaths that were coming out quicker, shorter.

            Why would she stop if it felt so good? Sansa was close, so close now. At some point she turned around, her cheek pressed into pillows, her back arched up. One hand worked at pumping itself in and out; the other toying circles against her clit. The bed was rocking beneath her, her hips moving faster and faster against her fingers.

            There was that cliff, that blinding light just an arm's reach away. Sansa strode towards it.

            “Stop,” the voice repeated, louder.

            “...what?” She barely managed to push her question through her lips. It hardly made a sound.

            Her fingers fumbled in their ministrations, but they remained inside her.

            “Sansa, I’ve told you to stop.” There was ice in his words, not at all that playful smirk that laced them before. At it Sansa finally did slow her fingers, stop them entirely. Her breaths were hot against the cover. Petyr continued: “The first lesson that I want you to learn, Sansa, is that your Dom decides when you come. And if you're _deserving_ of coming.”

            “But-”

            “’But’ what, sweetling? Lesson two: disobedience will earn you punishments. As a Dom, I should punish you for not stopping when I told you the first time. But since you're new to the scene, I will give you a pass. The next time you fail to follow an order, you won’t enjoy the lashings on your ass.”

            Sansa swallowed a knot in her throat. She wanted to feel that wave of pleasure course through her, wash all the tiredness and anxiety out of her body, even just for the night. She _needed_ it. But now – the beat of her heart was as much from fear as it was from pleasure.

            “I forbid you from coming until I let you, Sansa.” Petyr's words were curt, demanding. And somehow Sansa couldn't help but see a shadow of that smirk on his lips. Couldn’t help but hear, beneath that ice, a sliver of something heavier, huskier. As if Petyr had been getting off on her moans and the image of Sansa fucking herself.

            Or maybe she was imagining it from frustration at her not-quite-orgasm.

            Petyr went on. “If you wish to continue your lessons, let me know when you're free and we can work out a schedule. For now, have a good night. And no touching yourself.”

            The line went dead.

            Sansa turned over and stared at the stars swirling in the shadows of the ceiling. Her building orgasm was still there, waiting patiently for her fingers to bring her over the edge. And she wanted to. She had been _so fucking close_ to coming.

            And Arya was out of the apartment, probably out for the night. Sansa didn't have to be quiet tonight – she could have screamed and came over and over until her neighbors banged on her door to _shut up_.

            Her fingers circled a breast, running lightly over a nipple. She sucked in a breath of air. Everything was sensitive, craving that sweet release that was slowly ebbing away with each beat of her erratic heart.

            _No touching yourself._

            Fuck.

            Sansa sat up, staring at the dark screen of her phone. Beside it sat the worn business card, the bird facing up.

            Staring at her. _Mocking_ her with a smirk and a promise to punish her for disobedience.

            A sub followed orders because it made her Dom happy. Even if she wanted so desperately to ignore his words.

_Come on_ , her body said. _Just finish up. He’ll never know._

            She pulled a wayward hand away. It had been creeping towards her center, still craving that orgasm that was so far away now.

            Sansa showered (ignoring the itch to pull the shower head down and fuck the steady press of water against aching core) and got ready for bed. It was ten when she closed her eyes.

            It was past midnight when she opened her eyes. Petyr's voice was stuck in her head, along with images of what future lessons might be. Images of the people fucking at his party transformed – Sansa pressed against the window, Sansa bent over a rock in a clearing for all to see, Sansa tied and at the mercy of her Dom.

            At the mercy of Petyr.

            Sansa pressed her legs together, hoping to ease the throbbing ache.

            It didn't help.

            This was going to be harder than she thought.

 


	3. lesson 2: obedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I love each and every one of you still so much, there aren't enough words I know to express my love for you!!!
> 
> Sansa's continuing to fall deeper and deeper into the fun pit of sin, led by the oh so caring Petyr ;)) ]

 

          If Sansa said that she didn't think about what she had done on Friday night; that she'd had her fun with a stranger and was quite content with living her life the way it always had been; that she didn't even _think_ about touching herself or about wanting to comply with his small order… Well, she'd be lying her ass off.

          She didn't know why. Getting off wasn't something Sansa necessarily saw as something she _needed_ to do. Oftentimes she forgot it was a thing. Masturbation was more of an act that helped ease the stress when there was a lot going on – piles of projects and papers and club meetings. Every now and then that sweet release was more about _forgetting_ her worries than the actual sensation of coming. It was the momentary blankness in her head.

          But now, it was only Tuesday, and Sansa’s fingers never stopped _itching_ to plunge themselves inside of her. To tease her nipples, her clit, run her fingers across every inch of skin that always felt on fire now. Like her body was aching to its very core for it. To _enjoy_ the aftermath of coming, to revel in the act itself.

          Perhaps it was the fact that at the moment she couldn't. What was that saying? _You always want what you can't have._ Sansa thought it was only because she was told she couldn't touch herself that now she wanted it. More than ever.

          It was easier to tell herself that. Easier to admit it was because she _couldn't_ masturbate that she desperately felt like she _had_ to every waking minute.

          Easier than admitting these things – obeying a stranger’s commands, getting off while he listened, and eventually diving deep deep down into a bottomless rabbithole of depravity – were acts Sansa didn't realize she so desperately _craved_.

          _You're a filthy girl_ , that voice whispered. _You always have been, don't deny it._

          That wicked little voice in her head used to be an unknown thing. A darker variation of Sansa’s own voice. Now, Sansa couldn’t help but hear a smirking lilt to it. Couldn't help but hear the faint creak of a chair as she lost herself in the feeling of her fingers, and the thought of what deliciously horrible things were to come.

          She'd hope they'd come after she finally did.

          Lights flicked on. Clapping – Sansa’s hands moving automatically.

          Class was over. She looked at her laptop: hardly a paragraph of notes.

          Gods what was wrong with her?

          “Oh, and before I forget,” the professor said over the din of backpacks zipping up and desks clattering beneath seats. “The TA’s will be sending out the prompts for your first essay due at the end of February. We'll go through it more and what I'm looking for on Thursday.”

          Sansa followed Harry and Myranda out of the hall. They were talking about something – the class, or their studio projects – but Sansa heard only dullness. As if someone (like Arya) had shoved cotton in her ears.

          “You coming Sans?”

          Sansa shot her head up. Thankfully she saw the step she was about to stumble down. Her feet carried her towards her friends already at the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry, what was that?”

          They looked at each other with grins on their faces. Harry spoke up. “You've been out of it all day. Did you _actually_ have a hot date over the weekend and not tell us?”

          “What? No!” Sansa tried to come off as cool, going so far to give him a playful shove on the shoulder. But the accusation sent her heart into a flurry of fear. What would happen if she told them, though? That she _did_ have a sort-of hot date Friday night? That it wasn't so much a hot date as an improper...thing between her and a complete stranger.

          “As if any of us would have time for that,” Myranda mumbled. Harry laughed with a _true_ spoken between breaths. She went on: “We _literally just_ turned in an assignment last week, and another one tomorrow? Olenna is trying to kill us all this semester just because she can, honestly.”

          Sansa nodded, glad for the abrupt change in conversation. Like her fingers itching to feel the warmth between her legs, her mouth was itching to scream: _I'm not the kind of girl you think I am_.

          Sansa didn't even know what kind of girl she thought she was.

          “Down to studio?” Harry said, holding open the door. It wasn't so much a question as an acceptance that once they went through that door they weren't coming out for hours. They’d be lucky if they left before dawn. Warm light fell on the stones just out of reach of Sansa’s feet. She stared at it, toeing the line.

          But there was something she needed to do. And this time she wasn't going to wait six days.

          “Oh, a phone call,” she called out, keeping the face of her phone (screen off, not buzzing or ringing) away from her friends. “I'll be down in a minute, I need to go answer this.”

          “Is _that_ your hot date?” Myranda joked, holding onto the door frame and leaning out of it. Her brown curls swayed in the air.

          “I wish,” Sansa replied. To her credit, she managed to keep the frantic beat and heat inside of her out of her voice. “It’s an unknown number so maybe an internship offer?”

          Myranda gave Sansa a quizzical look, a quick glance towards Harry. “It's six, though? Kind of late for that.”

          _Crap._ That was the first lie that flew into her mind, and in retrospect it might not have been the most believable. Oh well. “I said ‘maybe’. Or could be someone asking to upgrade my house to solar panels? I dunno. I'll be right back though.”

          Off Sansa scurried out of sight and hearing of the door, making sure to speak _Hello?_ into the receiver loud enough to keep up appearances. It didn't matter so much what Myranda or Harry thought in terms of Sansa being a little crazy. That was what working in studio till three or five or eight in the morning was for. Revelation that everyone in class was crazy when shooting coffee straight into their veins to finish projects. Not to mention that one time Sansa accidentally took a bite out of cardboard instead of her pastry.

          A little crazy was fine. Was normal. As long as they didn't find out what dark secret was lurking just beneath the soft smiles and wide eyes of the perfect little Sansa Stark.

          Sansa’s heart was a raucous thing inside her as she wove her way to an empty spot outside, leaning against the concrete wall. It froze her skin, even through layers of clothes. It didn't freeze the lingering heat that smoldered nonstop deep deep inside her.

          One ring. Two.

          “Hello?”

          Sansa would be a liar if she denied that just hearing Petyr's voice sent a small spark jolting down her spine. Maybe it was recognition of _who_ he was. The stranger who was teaching her how to be perfect for Joffrey’s consumption. The person who was her temporary Dom, teaching her all sorts of things that would have friends and family in hellish uproar.

          The person that determined whether or not she could fuck herself.

          “Hi. Good evening, Sir.” She debated whether to call him that or Petyr. _Petyr_ definitely rolled off the tongue. But right now Sansa was more occupied in staying in his _good graces_. If she proved to be the sweet, obedient girl, maybe he'd let her get off just a little before they met.

          “Sansa. What a wonderful surprise.” The words held the tinge of the smirk that Sansa was starting to forget. And the way her name rolled from his mouth – it was almost intoxicating.

          “I've been thinking about what you taught me last week, Sir, and I was hoping we could continue our lessons sometime this week.” The words came out without a single stutter. Sansa was proud of that – she'd been practicing the conversation all during class.

          A short, breathy laugh. Sansa wondered if maybe she was putting on the good girl show _a little too much_. But, gods, she desperately wanted this. To come, yes (she'd gone much longer without fingering herself, sometimes weeks. But these four days seemed an eternity. An agonizing ache that needed fulfillment). To come, to explore these infinite facets of her body – what she liked, what she didn't. Since Friday she had been doing some research during her free time on the types of kinks and different ways people approached BDSM. Some intrigued her, making it all the more difficult to follow Petyr’s order. Some seemed odd. And some made her cup her breasts and squirm in fear.

          But more than that, Sansa wanted to be the perfect submissive. For Joffrey. For Petyr.

          He spoke, “I see, how _eager_ of you, sweetling. It's so wonderful finding someone like you, it'll be a shame when I have to pass you on to Joffrey.” A day Sansa hoped would come soon – if she remembered right, he was bound to graduate in May. She had three months to perfect herself.

          “Yes, Sir, I can't wait.”

          Another chuckle. “Well, I've some ideas for your next lessons, though I'm afraid I won't be available until at least Friday night. Or anytime during the weekend, whichever fits better in your busy schedule.”

          Sansa realized she never told Petyr that she was still in college. She remembered lying about being older, on a brisk Saturday night that seemed so long and so short ago.

          But Friday… That was a lot farther than she hoped.

          No, not Friday. Sansa remembered the social she and Harry and Myranda were going to. For their architecture group, not necessarily in celebration of anything. More of getting out of studio physically and mentally so they don't go completely mental.

          And Saturdays were tutoring in the morning.

          Sansa moaned in frustration.

          “I do hope you haven't touched yourself since last week, sweetling.”

          At that, she jerked away from the wall. “No, of course not!” Air wound it's way to her exposed back, sending a chill through her spine. “No, Sir, I haven't. But, erm, if I may say something?”

          “Of course.”

          Sansa cupped her hand over her phone, looking around the courtyard. Even in the emptiness she still whispered, fearing that _someone_ could hear. “I really want to masturbate, Sir. I can't stand not being able to touch myself.”

          The frankness, the honesty in her confession, Sansa hoped would earn her points. Petyr had berated her about being open with her sexuality last time. Sansa was still trying to get used to it. It was a difficult thing, especially when the briefest allusion to sex made her mother purse her lips in disgust.

          “Good,” Petyr said. “And sweetling, you'd best get used to that feeling. Of wanting to come. Feeling your orgasm just within reach, and not being able to grasp it. Especially when your Dom might be whipping you or fucking you for hours – and denying you from coming, regardless how loudly you moan and beg.”

          Sansa’s eyes widened. She would have dropped her phone if it wasn't plastered to her cheek.

          Worse, she had to press her legs together. No breeze pushing off of Bkackwater Bay could ever be cold enough to quench the fires that were burning, throbbing inside of her. And only at his words. At the image of Sansa tied up, thin lines contouring her arms and legs and stomach, taken from behind and screaming, begging please please _please_.

          Gods.

          “I… I understand, Sir. I hope I can learn how to control myself under your care.”

          There was a pause filled with the whistling air through trees. They stood at guard around the building, waiting, watching.

          “Which day works best for you, Sansa?”

          A bird flew from one tree to the next, calling for its mate. Not a sad whistle – one filled with hope and longing.

          “I should be free anytime after noon on Saturday. Sir.”

          “Then Saturday it is. I'll need to make some arrangements first, but I'll text you the time and place to meet later.”

          She was doing it.

          She was really doing it.

          Getting herself off in her room while Petyr listened – that was one thing. _Going_ to him, submitting to whatever wiles and wishes for half a day. Sansa would be more than a little crazy to agree.

          _He's a complete stranger, or have you forgotten everything but that ache between your legs?_

          “Sounds great. I look forward to it, Sir.”

          “I look forward to seeing you too, Sansa.” There was a smile there, she was _sure_ she heard it. Etched in the soft syllables of her name.

          Saturday.

          There were only two problems between now and then: keeping her fingers to themselves for four more days. And hiding the blush every time Myranda or Harry joked about her hot date.

* * *

          Every mile north had been an agony of tail lights. Of the sun snaking its way down Sansa’s side window. Of slamming brakes as cars swerved in front of her. Horns honked in tune with her music. People in the South were many things, Sansa had come to realize in the past years, and terrible drivers was definitely one of them. She wasn't sure if it was a trait of their personalities, or if they came off arrogant because they didn't understand what a blinker was.

          Sansa pulled in to a narrow parking space. The clock in her car read 5:48. Good – early, but not too early that she’d have time to debate whether or not she should back out. Sansa also didn't want to be late – that was something she just hated. Something her parents drilled into her about bad manners.

          5:49. The air conditioner blared on her face. If she closed her eyes, Sansa could pretend she was back in Winterfell, hiking the nearby trails during winter break with her family. The wind biting at any speck of exposed flesh. Soft specks of snow falling and catching along her hair.

          The cold air also helped to tamp down that lingering fire. Ever since Tuesday it burned brighter – in anticipation for today, in excitement of learning new things.

          It also helped with another problem.

          Sansa unplugged her phone and swiped open to the text. She’d stared at it for far too long ever since she got it, almost like the business card that she kept stuffed back inside her case. Partly because Sansa still couldn’t believe this was happening. But unlike paper, texts couldn't be worried at with anxious fingers.

          She checked the date: Saturday, good. The time: six pm, good (with no acknowledgement of how long she would be here). The address: Sansa had went back and forth between the text and the map, wondering if Petyr meant to send her here.

          The building was newer, one of a handful of sleek modern blocks in the midst of older brick structures. And some of the new ones (this one included) had strips of fake brick decorating the façade to match with its neighbors. Black bricks to contrast with the white stucco and wide glass windows. Modern, but made to look older than it actually was.

          A restaurant.

          _What, you've_ actually _got a hot date Saturday?_ she heard Myranda ask last night at the social. _Or is there some secret Northern cult you're a part of?_

          Sansa waved it away with a generic _family business_ excuse. A dinner with some distant relatives, a location many many miles away from King’s Landing. That's the excuse she gave Myranda and Harry when Sansa strolled back into studio Tuesday night, why she had spent so long talking on the phone. Neither of them made mention to the far-away look in Sansa's eyes – but they did when she slit her finger cutting foam. Again.

          5:58.

          She maneuvered her body out, the SUV besides her clearly not a compact car. Short heels clacked against the asphalt as she surveyed the other vehicles parked there, making a game of figuring out which one might be Petyr’s. Not the SUV or any of the larger cars, she thought. They didn't fit in with the clean and pressed suit he wore at the party. The tiepin and rings – he had to have something nice. But there were several nice and way nice cars parked, their coats shining against the lamplight. Sansa wouldn’t be shocked to find out they were all his.

          There was a line shooting out of the front door, wrapping around part of the side. Sansa strode past it, avoiding their stares or their whispered words.

          There were two other lines of text that Petyr sent her this morning. One: _Walk in and ask for my name._ Simple enough.

          Two: _You can choose whether or not to wear undergarments_.

          Sansa _tried_ to avoid the glares and the whispers as she went past. But she couldn't help but feel that everyone in line _knew_ there wasn't anything beneath the little black dress she wore. The same one from the party. In case Petyr forgot what she looked like, she told herself. Not because it swept down into the valley of her breasts or rode high on her thighs.

          “Hi,” she said sweetly to the hostess. The people waiting indoors (she thought) we're staring. At this little girl wandering in alone. At the curve of her ass that the jacket fell just short of covering. At least it hid her breasts, and her nipples that had been sensitive for a week. Just brushing against the soft fabric of the dress sent them peaking hours ago.

          “Good evening,” the lady said back.

          “I'm part of a reservation. Under the name ‘Petyr’.”

          The woman didn't bother glancing at the ledger, ushering Sansa to come along. There – those stares of confusion and hunger were _definitely_ poised on her now.

          They wove through the tables and bodies on the first floor until they got to a set of stairs. Up they went, turned, up again. The second floor overlooked part of the room below. The tables here were longer, meant for larger parties. All but one was occupied. And there was only one person sat. Waiting.

          “Here you go, miss,” the hostess pulled out a chair across from Petyr, draping a napkin across Sansa's legs as she sat. “I'll be back shortly for your order.”

          Sansa watched the woman leave. There was the forced service smile plastered on the hostess’ lips. But beneath it Sansa saw the deep-set curiosity lining her skin, pointing towards brown eyes and brows. _Who is this girl_ , she had to have thought. _Wearing such a small dress, having dinner with such an older man. A whore if this weren't such a nice restaurant_.

          She brushed the idea away.

          Sansa finally looked around. The inside was dark, lit only by soft orange sconces along the walls. The windows she saw outside had been deceptive. Or perhaps they hid them away at night for a more intimate setting. Above, Sansa saw exposed metal trusses, painted black too. A latticework blending into the shadows. The walls were lined with bright red wallpaper and accented with black woodwork.

          “You should take your coat off.”

          Sansa trailed her gaze down from the trusses to the molding to the sconces – to finally rest on the face, on the _man_ , who had been occupying her thoughts for weeks. Even in the dim lighting, Petyr’s features were more handsome than memory remembered.

          It wasn't until Sansa swung the jacket across the back of her chair – the cool air brushing over her shoulders, down her arms – did she realize _why_ Petyr insisted she do so.

          She could feel the dress grazing across her breasts as she moved. Felt them _ache_ for a rougher, firmer touch. She could feel Petyr's gaze on her skin, too, as she took the jacket off and moved back to face the table, to face him.

          Torn – between wrapping her arms around her chest to hide the offending breasts. Or leaning forward and letting them edge out of the fabric just enough.

          She did neither. Smiling at Petyr, pretending like there was nothing amiss despite how heavy her heart beat inside her. “It's a beautiful restaurant, Sir. Have you been here before?”

          Petyr (she was right) had to drag his gaze up from the expanse of Sansa’s chest uncovered by the dress, up the column of her throat, getting tangled in the curls resting across her shoulders before finally, finally, meeting her eyes.

          They were dark in the dim light. If she hadn't seen them before, Sansa would have thought them always black. Always hungry.

          “Sansa, I insist that while we're out of scenes or lessons, you call me Petyr. I'm not your actual Dom, after all.”

          She furrowed her brows. So...this really was just a ‘hot date’ and nothing more?

          No – there was an _ache_ deep inside Petyr, too. This might not be a lesson at the moment, but Sansa was sure it would evolve into one whether or not she urged him on. Sansa wasn't the only one craving touch.

          “Of course. Petyr.” She saw his shoulders tense up at the syllables of his name.

          “Are you allergic to anything, sweetling? Seafood or mushrooms or the like?” Petyr made a show of glancing through the menu.

          She tried, too, but the words didn't hold her interest. “No, nothing that’s typically edible at least.”

          “Good.”

          On cue the hostess came back, notepad in hand and intrigue still playing at her face despite how hard she worked at hiding it beneath genial smiles. “Are you ready to order?”

          “Yes. We'll share a plate of your seafood paella. A glass of your finest Dornish red for each of us. Thank you.”

          The lady gave a sidelong glance towards Sansa, sizing up the state of her makeup and the low cut of her dress. Wondering _just how old_ this girl was to be with someone far, far older. Wondering if Sansa was even _legal_.

          Thankfully, the hostess said nothing about it. “Great, I'll be back soon with your drinks.”

          Sansa watched her descend the stairs before making another sweep of the mezzanine. At all of the empty chairs with placemats set and waiting.

          “So, Petyr, how much did it cost to rent out the entire upper floor?”

          He chuckled. When Sansa's gaze returned, he had his head resting in a palm, staring at her. Nothing in particular – dark eyes roved across every inch he could see above the table. She wondered if his mind’s eye imagined the rest of her. With or without clothes, Sansa couldn't say.

          “Oh, enough. Although the owner is a friend of mine. I provide him with plenty of fun at the Mockingbird, and he let's me get away with arrogant shows like this.”

          “To think someone of your caliber has friends.”

          The smirk spread across his face, setting the edge of his mouth into a crooked thing. “Sweetling, I have many things. Money and friends. And at the moment, the power to choose whether or not I’ll let you enjoy what I have planned later this evening. You’d best remember that.”

          The hostess brought a fresh bottle of wine and poured them each a full glass. In that time, neither of them spoke. Sansa was too occupied with how casually Petyr wove in that power he held over her.

          Petyr was the one watching the hostess leave this time. “I'm glad to see you've taken my suggestion,” he said without looking back.

          “Which suggestion was that?” Sansa took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and rich, not at all like the cheap alcohol Myranda bought last night.

          “To forgo your bra. Although I must admit at being a selfish man in hoping you've chosen to complete the set.” Petyr stared at Sansa now – or, at her breasts. By the way he was staring she _knew_ he was picturing the dress gone. And the offending table.

          Was he also imaging the feel of his hands cupping them, toying with the peaks that were anguishing for a touch. With fingers, with tongue, with teeth.

          Sansa took another sip to steel herself. There was a pounding in her head and she knew it couldn't be from the wine yet. “You missed the perfect opportunity, though.”

          “Hmm? And what would that be?”

          “To suggest I show up naked.”

          A glint flashed in his eyes. Turned _darker,_ hungrier for whatever visions were playing in his own mind.

          If she asked, would Petyr take her right here on the table as his appetizer?

          A brush of fabric against her knee. A jolt up her leg and into her core. Sansa moved her legs against his, upset that it was far from the sort of touch she craved. She wasn't sure if it helped or not. All the while they stared into each other’s eyes, acting as if nothing was amiss below the tablecloth.

          “What exactly do you do, Petyr? Aside from toying with innocent girls.”

          The accusation didn't hit him the way it would were he someone truly wicked. He only laughed, pressed his legs firmer against hers, finally indulging in his own drink.

          “Well, Sansa, I'm sure you could guess. I own a fine establishment that caters to what many see as a questionable lifestyle. Very few places like mine offer such freedom and chances to explore fantasies with like–minded folk. A pity, true, but a blessing for my wallet.”

          “I see.” So just as she thought. A man peddling wicked fantasies.

          “And what about you, Sansa? How do you spend your days aside from begging me to allow you to come?”

          When Sansa spoke things like that, there was always an underlying tone of _innocence_ and _shame_. But Petyr spoke of sex like it was the weather. Maybe something even more ordinary.

          The glass twirled slowly in her fingers. Should she tell him the truth? There were plenty of miles between here and home – both King’s Landing and Winterfell. Not to mention he didn't know her aside from whatever sort of relationship this was. She was just Sansa the girl from the party probably way over her head in diving into being a submissive, that's all. He didn’t know her, truly. “I'm a student, actually. I'm studying architecture, down in King’s Landing. I haven't quite decided what I plan to do once I graduate, but I still have a few years to figure that out.”

          “Life’s full of twists and turns, sweetling. Don't worry about the future too much. And if you don't get what you want the first time. I'm sure in a decade or two you'll be designing structures everyone around the world will know and stare at in awe.”

          Sansa’s heart twinged, tore. On one hand, she wanted to distance herself from Petyr. This was only a temporary thing until she was good enough for Joffrey. On the other, she thought she heard sadness in his words. Like life had fucked him over and now he's...this. And now he wanted to help her avoid fucking up her own life.

          “Thank you, Petyr. That’s very sweet. I hope I could be that amazing one day, but who can say?”

          The food came then, and Petyr asked about her projects and her dreams in between bites of savory paella and sips of Dornish red. For half an hour Sansa forgot about the ache inside of her.

          For half an hour Sansa forgot _why_ she was here.

          “Dessert?” Sansa didn't hear the hostess sneak up, she had been too busy explaining her concept for her next project that Olenna (who’s name Sansa kept private) wanted in two weeks. A blessing in time, yes, but that meant a higher quality in idea and product. And through it all, Petyr leaned forward and drank in every word. He was fascinated in every idea and phrase, posing questions, even if he didn't know some of the things Sansa was saying.

          Petyr shot a glance at Sansa before saying to the hostess, “No, we're good. The check, please.”

          Sansa watched him fish out his wallet and couldn't stop thinking about that momentary look in his eyes. As if he so desperately wanted to tell the hostess: _yes, I'll have dessert – and look, she's right here._

          Sansa pressed her thighs together. Coolness where Petyr’s legs once had been a soft press. There it was – that ache again, once dormant and now smoldering.

          They made their way down and out of the restaurant. The lower floor was packed, Sansa had to hold onto Petyr's arm not to get lost in the throngs closing in around them.

          It was past eight when Sansa felt cool air rush against her exposed flesh. It wended into her bones, her mind, and Sansa felt disappointment easing it's way through her. Their date was over – and Sansa found it difficult to form words of goodbye.

          Worse was the brisk return of life: she needed to complete forms for tutoring, and there was an appointment tomorrow with a group of non–native freshman to go through their essays. Not to mention Olenna’s project, and the paper for history she should start on.

          Water was lapping around her ankles. Sansa wondered when she would drown.

          “Would you like dessert, sweetling?”

          Sansa broke her gaze away from neon signs across the street, from the race of cars and the twinkling stars above. Petyr was leaning against a sleek, dark silver car, arms crossed at his chest and looking at her. “Dessert? But you told the hostess no…”

          He stepped towards her, running his hands down her arms in an attempt to warm her through the sleeves of her jacket. Up, down – too slow to do any amount of warming. They stayed like that for several minutes, staring into each other’s eyes in the dim parking lot light, the _whoosh_ of cars sounding in between beats of her heart. Petyr not doing anything else but run slow movements across her arms.

          Was this it? The change in roles. Sansa and Petyr were no longer two people going out on date at a fancy restaurant, learning about each other and enjoying fine food. Sansa was a sub, Petyr her Dom, and she was a fool to think there was anything else between them than that.

          Petyr wasn't even her Dom, not in the end.

          _Everything is a lesson_. The voice whispered. It sounded like Petyr.

          “Would Sir like dessert, too?” Sansa tried to coyly slide her hands down his suit, hovering inches above his trousers. Tried. But her fingers were cold and unsure in their trail.

          And Petyr had grabbed them before they could reach their destination.

          “Sweetling, I admire your eagerness. Truly.” A thumb ran over the back of her hand, slow swipes. “But when your Dom insists on doing something for you, it's best to say _Thank you_ and let them do what they want. Or if you aren't sure, you have your safe words at your disposal. Otherwise I'd take it as _disobedience_. And I'm sure you wouldn't want that?”

          No.

          _Obediently_ , Sansa nodded, casting her eyes down. Not to look at anything in particular. To hide herself. An ache in her chest – a hollow, gnawing thing. Here Sansa thought she was making progress in honesty and boldness. Wrong. What did she know, truly, about any of this?

          “No, Sir. I'm sorry.”

          A hand lifted her chin. He didn't do anything else or say anything else. Waiting. Sansa blinked back the sting of tears that were threatening to form, finally looking up.

          “Sweetling. Sansa. There's nothing to be sorry about. There are things you don't know – an entire world of things you don't know – and it's fine to use a safe word and talk about it, or how you're feeling, or anything. I've told you last week, about the _openness_ in this sort of relationship. You'll receive some of the best orgasms you could never even dream of. But in return, I need you to talk to me. Do you understand?”

          His fingers were warm against her face. She tried not to press into them – Petyr was only a Dom, only a stranger. This _thing_ would never be anything else.

          Sansa nodded.

          “Use your words, Sweetling.”

          “Yes. Yes, Sir, I understand. Thank you for being so patient with me.”

          “Good.” A soft peck on her cheek, so quick it could have been the wind. “Now, Sweetling, I want to thank you for a wonderful night. And for choosing to follow my suggestion. It made it very _difficult_ to focus on eating paella when I’d rather be eating you.” Her heart skipped several beats. “And as much as I love my friend, and he I, I don't think I'd be allowed back if I had taken you there on the table. Or against the balcony for all of the first floor to see.”

          Sansa wasn't sure if it was the boldness in his words or the softness of his hand against her skin. “Sir, if I may say something?”

          “Of course.”

          She licked her lips, looking straight into Petyr's eyes. Again, they were dark. Were hers as midnight, too? “I thought it too. I wish you _had_ taken me like that.”

          This was the sort of thing he wanted to hear – she knew by the firmer press at her cheek. By the lessening inches that separated them. By the way his eyes darted to her lips, her throat, the expanse of her chest.

          _Ring ring ring ring–_

          Petyr pulled out his phone, staring at the screen with growing disgust. He'd hung up, but even before he slid it back inside his suit pocket it _dinged._ There was a moment where Petyr debated whether to check it or chuck it. When it went _ding_ again, twice in quick succession, Petyr sighed and looked at the messages. The hand that held hers remained, those slow swipes of his thumb moving faster in irritation at what- or whoever was drawing his attention.

          His brow furrowed in irritation as he typed out his reply. The phone gave a short first _ring_ before Petyr cut it off and turned it silent.

          “I apologize, Sansa. I did have a _wonderful_ evening planned for you. Unfortunately, this is an urgent matter even I didn't anticipate. But I won't leave you before giving you your dessert.” Petyr pulled Sansa towards him, air still separating their chests. She could feel the heat radiating off of him – of want and fury. “Would you like me to finger you or eat you out? And I promise I'll let you come as much as you'd like tonight. Within reason.”

          Sansa’s body leaned towards him. But her mind – she couldn't help but think of the call. Of the irritation plainly written on his features. Of the supposed _urgency_ Petyr was brushing aside. “If it's urgent, Sir, you can leave. I'll be fine.”

          Fine for another week without touching herself? Gods no she wasn't going to be fine.

          Petyr ran a hand through her hair, slow strokes, as if he'd never seen or felt something like it before. With each pass, his fingers brushed against her ear, her jaw, sending trickles of sparks down. Sansa closed her eyes, focusing on those brief touches.

          Then: Petyr yanked her head back, trailing his mouth up the column of her throat. Sansa gasped – at the suddenness, at the points of pain on her scalp, at the rough brush of Petyr’s moustache against her skin. The movement was jarring. Soft and sweet, not at all with the roughness that had been in his voice.

          “A little advice, sweetling.” His warm breath tickled against Sansa's flesh, lips just out of touch of her ear. “The world doesn't owe you shit. If you keep prostrating yourself to the will of others, you’ll end up broken and alone.”

          “Now,” he said, releasing his grip entirely. A hand fished inside for keys, the car _clicking_ open. “I've one present for you, other than the orgasms I'll be giving you later. You can come with me or drive yourself there, but I promise it isn't far.”

          Sansa rubbed at her roots. Her mother's voice had been screaming at her all night, berating her and warning her about at least a million things. Poor Catelyn Stark would never survive the shock of finding out her daughter willingly got into a stranger’s car with the known promise of sex. Well, there wasn’t sex _yet_. But Petyr assured Sansa in allusions that there would be. Or, at least a lot of orgasms.

          The grey leather was cool against the back of her thighs, working it's way through the thin fabric of her dress. Sansa's hands worried at the hem. So badly she wanted to shut off the voice inside her head (and there were a few times she had). But this was a lot different that just calling someone or going to a restaurant in separate cars. On and on like a radio in a nearby room – it whispered everything that could go wrong. As constant as the ache between her legs.

          If she closed her eyes, Sansa could pretend the leather below was flesh. Pretend that she was months in the future, finished with her lessons and lying beside Joffrey. Enjoying the feel of him beside her, atop her. She'd need to ask Petyr what sorts of things Joffrey liked so she could learn and prepare. To be perfect for him.

          A hand – true, warm flesh – fell lightly on Sansa's thigh. She didn't move, didn't open her eyes. Ignored the warning sirens blazing across her mind in lieu of the smoldering fire that burst to life at that simple touch. She fought against the urge to lift her thighs towards it. The hand trailed along her thigh, lazy strokes, reaching incrementally higher with each pass.

          When his fingers brushed against hers at the hem, Sansa moved hers to rest against the seat. Petyr understood – on his next trail down and up, those warm fingers crept just beneath the fabric.

          Her breath hitched.

          Sansa’s core was throbbing, aching. Just _one_ swipe of fingers across her lips, or grazing against swollen clit – that's all it would take for that dam to shatter. Every nerve was tense, waiting, _anticipating_ the moment she'd finally get to come.

          Up his fingers were returning. They seemed to move slower, dragging harder against skin enough to leave angry pink trails in their wake. Up under the fabric. Higher.

          Gone.

          “We’re here, sweetling.”

          His fingers were gone. Sansa moaned in frustration, receiving a deep chuckle from Petyr. She could still feel his hand in the growing cold, ghosting across her thigh and higher.

          “Remember, sweetling, I haven't given you permission to come yet. You should be glad I stopped before you earned a punishment.”

          Her face flushed, she could feel it in her ears. As much as Sansa wanted to finally feel that sweet release – she wanted even more not to do anything _wrong_.

          “Thank you, Sir, for being considerate,” she said with shaking breath.

          Sansa stepped out of the car, her feet only slightly wobbly from the need that coursed through her, linking her arm in the crook of Petyr's offered arm. From the outside, they might have been a normal couple. Maybe even a loving daughter and her doting father.

          But would a doting father have had his finger _inches_ away from plunging inside his daughter?

          Or would a doting father take his daughter into a lingerie store?

          “Good evening,” rang a pair of women. Both around Petyr's age, if Sansa had to guess. Both impeccably dressed. There was a measuring tape strung around the taller one’s shoulders.

          “I've an appointment, under the name Baelish. We're a little early but I was hoping you could take us now.”

          The shorter woman clicked on a computer, looking for confirmation. Meanwhile Sansa tried her best not to look at the lithe mannequins posing with scraps of fabric that did little to hide what was beneath. Somehow they seemed _more_ scandalous than what Sansa was currently wearing. Which was nothing.

          “Ah, yes, here you are. Luckily the client before you called in to cancel.”

          “Wonderful,” Petyr replied. The women collected supplies in pouches at their waists, motioning for Sansa to come along. At least Sansa would be alone for the humiliation of being naked in front of strangers for the first time. And then: “If I may sit in while you work?”

          What. They couldn't possibly allow that. He was a man and they women. Wasn't there a law about separating changing areas?

          “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

          The room they led Sansa into was spacious and well–lit. A tri-part full–length mirror stood on one wall, with shelves and hooks taking up the other two. And of course, a small bench beside the door. Petyr took a seat but not before swiping his fingers across the fabric covering Sansa’s ass. She had to cup her mouth to keep the moan from escaping.

          They stood her on a short pedestal. Soft lights rained down upon her, highlighted every inch of her skin. The taller woman gave Sansa a quick once over before flicking her hand. “Please remove your dress. You can hang it on the wall over there.”

          Sansa reached behind for the zipper, dragging it down. In the mirror before her she could see Petyr sitting casually with legs crossed. Watching intently the trail of her hand down her back, the growing expanse of skin. And in the shadows hovering over him, Sansa could make out the bulge straining against his pants. A thing he didn't bother to conceal, not after his eyes found hers in the mirror.

          At least it would be agony for him too, if not a different sort.

          _Now or never_.

          The dress pooled at her feet. Sansa curtsied to pick it up without having to bend over and show Petyr _everything_.

          There was the smallest flurry of _unease_ on the shorter woman at the realization that Sansa had been naked beneath her dress. Combined with that definite sharp tang of Sansa’s need no longer hidden beneath fabric – oh, Petyr definitely was not a doting father. The other flashed eyes towards Petyr. Worry and fear. But neither said anything of it. _He must have paid them generously_ , Sansa thought.

          The women worked silently. The air was filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and the movements of their work: measuring, fetching different styles of fabric, consulting with one another about which matched best with Sansa's skin and hair and size. Not once did they ask for Sansa's opinion, or Petyr's.

          “We should have some pieces ready by Monday,” the taller one announced to no one in particular when they had finished, stringing the measuring tape around her neck. The shorter was quickly writing notes down about what they decided. “You may put your dress back on, ma'am.”

          Sansa grabbed it and clutched it against her chest, not looking at anyone. Sure, the ache between her legs had cooled, but the scent still lingered. And the heat of need was replaced with the heat of embarrassment. They were strangers, yes, but still. Perhaps Petyr _meant_ to touch Sansa in the car, just to get the women talking. Get them wondering about this relationship between him and a girl at least half his age.

          “You should stand taller, sweetling. Proud of who you are and what you have.”

          Sansa looked up. The women were gone, the bright lights turned off. Petyr still sat on the bench, casually, not making a move to leave or help Sansa with the dress.

          He continued: “Turn around and look in the mirror.”

          Sansa glanced towards the closed door. Would the women suspect something was happening other than getting dressed? Or was this part of Petyr's _appointment?_

          Finally Sansa turned, the dress still against her breasts. She didn't see anything remarkable about herself. Her mother's hair and eyes. Breasts Myranda teased about being too small. And her height – girls weren't supposed to be this tall. Even with her heels off, Sansa stood a few inches taller than Petyr.

          Petyr approached, standing hardly a foot behind her. She saw a twitch in his hands – meaning to touch her, perhaps, but he kept them to himself. “As a person you need to love yourself, body and mind. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetling. But there's plenty to be proud of. Confidence is key.”

          Her eyes slid towards his in the mirror. “Key to being a good sub?”

          He smiled. “Well, yes. Each Dom is different, but having a sub that loves and knows their body makes it easier to scene. To fuck. To love.”

          Sansa looked back. Slowly she dropped the dress. She looked at herself, traced the curves of her silhouette.

          Was this a body that she loved?

          Was this a body that Joffrey would love?

          She hoped so.

          “When you're ready go sit on the bench, sweetling. And spread your legs.”

          Sansa didn't move for at least a minute. _Stop this nonsense before you go too far_ , whispered that firm voice in her head again. _Just tell him your safe word and get out._

          “How are you feeling, Sansa?” She looked up at him. “If you need to talk through something, don't be afraid to tell your Dom. Honesty, remember?”

          Sansa licked her lips. Her fingers wished she hadn't dropped the dress – she needed something to wring, to work through her nerves. “I'm okay, Sir. I... There’s a lot more to this than I thought.”

          “Like I said, more than whips and chains.” Petyr gave her a small, crooked smile. “If it's worth anything, I think a good orgasm would help ease whatever is eating at your mind. And if you don't feel up to it, just say _stop_ and you can leave. But outside of this room, my order still stands. No coming, no touching yourself, unless I allow you.”

          Certainly whatever _was_ eating at her would need more than an orgasm to cleanse away.

          At least she could forget about it for a little while.

          Sansa nodded, heading for the bench, sitting down. It was still warm from when Petyr sat there, watching. Deep breath. Automatically Sansa moved to cover herself. She looked at Petyr, who was still standing in the center of the room, unmoving. His eyes were dark again, black. Sansa couldn't help but wonder about that – and in the mirror, she thought hers carried a similar hue. Deep breath. She removed her hands, one by one, and spread her legs. Like a good sub would. For him.

          Petyr smiled, eyes roving over her body in languid motions. Drinking her in, devouring her without so much as a single touch. He'd already seen her naked when the women measured her but now. Now she felt completely exposed. Stripped down to the very marrow of her bones. Petyr saw her and saw through her. Sansa wished she could hear the thoughts rolling in his mind. The mechanical whirring of air and the heavy thrum of her heart were her only companions.

          Sansa fought against the urge to cover herself again. With every passing second, minute, the urge became insatiable. Fingers clutched the edge of the bench, toes tapped on the wood floor. Her breathing was the only thing that remained in constant, hot exhales.

          Right as she was about to crack and shrink into herself, Petyr approached. His feet closing the gap in one two three steps. The fabric of his trousers brushed against the inside of her knees. Each leg pressing lightly against her legs to keep Sansa from closing up.

          “Just like that sweetling,” he murmured. Petyr placed his hands on her thighs, holding Sansa down in a light grip. The touch was electric. He didn't run fingers across her skin or press into her, molding flesh into one. Still Sansa's hips arched up – all of her was craving his bare skin on hers. Craving more.

          “You never answered my question.”

          Sansa heard it through the heavy fog in her head. “I…”

          Petyr’s eyes darted to the join of her legs. “Whether you wanted me to finger you or eat you out.”

          However Sansa's face responded elicited a half smile from him.

          “Sir,” she began, dragging her tongue across her lips. “Would it be wrong to ask for both?”

          It turned into a full smile, reaching the corners of his eyes. The smile was somehow both kind and wicked – and proud.

          “A Dom expects many things from his sub, sweetling. But two are more important than others. Confidence, and obedience. Remember that, Sansa.”

          With that, Petyr dragged one hand up her thigh, moving inwards towards her core that _needed_ his touch. Sansa didn't realize her body was leaning towards him until she felt the firm press of his other hand holding her down. Still, her hips arched towards wandering fingers, a silent plea for the release she'd been craving for a week. Begging him for it.

          Thumb brushed lightly against her clit. Sansa gasped. Days of waiting made that single brief touch shoot fire down her spine. But that was all – Petyr kept himself at bay.

          “Sir… please…“ she managed.

          “If you insist, sweetling.”

          Petyr ran a finger down the length of her cunt, up and down in a languid stroke. Up and down. His thumb continued to rub at her clit in the same rhythm. It was madness, it was beautiful.

          When he finally pushed a finger into her core, Sansa let loose a long moan. Her hips rolled to the thrusts of his finger, pushing into his hand and asking for _more._ Her lips asked for it too. Her fingers wrapped around Petyr's wrist, urging him to go faster, go deeper.

          Petyr brought his other hand towards Sansa’s breasts, running circles across the hardened peaks. Then, with the slow addition of a second finger into her core, Petyr pinched at her nipple. Tongue lathed across the other. Fingers and thumb a relentless motion against her, inside her.

          It wasn't long before she came. Sansa’s mind was a jumble, she couldn't be sure of anything other than the waves of pleasure rolling throughout her. The gradual slowing of Petyr’s ministrations.

          Gods.

          “What a terrible mess you've made, sweetling.” Sansa's eyes shot open, cold fear draping over the lingering warmth. Had she done something wrong? Was she not supposed to come?

          But Petyr’s face was inches from her breast, staring at her orgasm on his fingers. There was no malice or anger in his face – only that wicked smirk.

          Petyr looked at her as he brought wet fingers to his lips. One by one he sucked them clean, never once breaking her gaze. His other hand had been rubbing lightly against her other breast. “As a good Dom it would have been rude of me not to clean up my sub's mess.”

          Sansa caught the dark gleam in his eyes. No, she didn't so anything wrong.

          He trailed kisses down her chest – the tip of her nipple, the underside of her breasts, down her stomach. When he reached between her legs, Petyr nipped at the inside of her thigh, inches away from her cunt that was already aching again. Petyr wrapped his hands around her thighs, pulling her towards the edge of the bench.

          There was no warning when Petyr lapped along her lower lips. Licking up whatever remained of her first orgasm. Running over where his fingers had just been.

          All the while, dark mossy eyes stared into blue.

          Sansa tipped her head back against the wall, losing herself in the feel of his tongue. When he sucked at her clit, Sansa shot her hands into the dark curls of his hair. When he thrust his tongue inside, soothing over where his fingers had been, Sansa pulled his head towards her, begging him to go deeper.

          More.

          She needed more.

          There was a method to his torture: run circles over her clit, suck on it until Sansa was _so close,_ push back against the force of her hands on him to bite at lips before plunging tongue in and tasting her. Again and again, the pace _just_ slow enough that Sansa moaned for faster, deeper, more. Each time Sansa felt her orgasm nearing its end, Petyr changed ministrations. Keeping Sansa on that cusp of need for what felt like forever.

          She might have been babbling and moaning and who knew what. All Sansa could focus on was the warmth of his face between her legs, the growing push of his fingers into her thighs.

          After enough agony, Petyr kept his attention on her clit. Grazing it with teeth and tongue. Sansa rolled her hips to match his tongue, need building and building and – finally – plunging her into the sea of pleasure.

          Sansa screamed, her fingers pulling at Petyr’s hair, her thighs pushed into his mouth.

          He continued slow strokes against her clit while Sansa rode the waves, let the hazy white warmth flow throughout every inch of her body.

          _Gods_.

          Petyr had his head resting against her inner thigh. His lips were red. A sheen of her come on them, tangled in his beard. He didn't seem at all concerned by it – staring only at Sansa with a smile. His left hand was rubbing circles where it had held her down.

          The waiting – the agonizing week of waiting, of being on edge and itching to get herself off – made her body incredibly sensitive to Petyr's touch. Made her body come twice and fast and arched in preparation for a third. Petyr chuckled at her _eagerness,_ giving Sansa only a nip on her thigh.

          Through the haze in her mind, Sansa managed to look at Petyr. At the gleam in his eyes. At the seemingly–permanent bulge straining against pants.

          Sansa bent, maneuvering around Petyr to reach for the zipper of his pants. He'd let her come twice; now she meant to return the favor. But Petyr grabbed her wayward hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a chaste kiss so unlike the kisses he left below.

          “Next time, sweetling.” Another kiss, this time he stood to place it on the top of her head. “I promise I'll teach you how to give blowjobs good enough to make any man bend to the will of your tongue. But unfortunately your lessons end here tonight.”

          Sansa’s eyes bulged enough to earn a low chuckle into the flesh or her palm.

          Petyr helped Sansa up onto shaky legs. She had still been wearing her heels, which made the wobble in her legs worse. Petyr grabbed her discarded dress and helped to slip it up her. When Petyr had to close the zip, he dragged it up one slow tooth at a time. As if not wanting _this_ to end as much as Sansa did.

          They left the store. Sansa didn't see the women on their way out, wondering whether they had retreated somewhere deep in the building where her own screams and moans couldn't be heard. And blushed at that – that she hasn't even considered being quiet or sneaky. All Sansa wanted, needed, was the feel of Petyr and the warm rush after an orgasm. Or two.

          Petyr drove her back to the restaurant parking lot, sitting idly as Sansa reluctantly removed herself from his car and went back into hers. She didn't turn it on quite yet, staring at Petyr through the windshield.

          A muffled _ping._

          There were multiple notifications on her phone, but she only paid attention to the most recent.

          _Same time next week?_

          Sansa couldn't help the smile that turned at her lips.

          _Yes, Sir, I can't wait._

          A minute passed before his response:

          _I can't imagine why, sweetling. Remember that I'm still forbidding you from coming until I let you. Be a good girl and don't try to rub yourself a half orgasm. I'll know if you did. Oh, and do your best not to imagine what it’ll be like next week when I have you tied down and sucking on my cock._

          Sansa felt a wave of warmth wash over her.

          _Just for you, Sir. I'll come only for you._

          She looked up again. Petyr was staring at her. She wished she could see more than the dark silhouette – the way he'd respond to her text. Wished she could trail her eyes and hands across him.

          Sansa started her car and drove out, turning right. Petyr followed until the got to the freeway, heading north whilst Sansa drove back south to King’s Landing smelling wholly of sin. If she were lucky Arya would be out gallivanting with Gendry.

          She flipped the radio on and sung.

          Next week.

          Somehow that long distance between then and now didn't seem as wide an abyss as it had before.

          Not now that Sansa knew how fucking _good_ it felt to give herself up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter just...kept going, I know. But I promise we'll get some good good bdsm fun in the next chapter, stay tuned ;) ]


	4. lesson 3: failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Okay, so this chapter turned into something completely different from what I planned? (So, what I originally was gonna do has been pushed back to next chapter). I'm not super duper happy with how it came out, but it's good enough. That and it’s gotten pretty long, so better get it up now before it hits 20k words or something lol.]

 

            “Hellooooo? Earth to Sansa?”

            Sansa snapped into focus.

            “I– What?”

            Arya was slouching on the couch of their apartment, one leg dangling off the arm, one perched on top of the back. There was no way that position was comfortable, but Arya didn't seem bothered.

            She _did_ seem bothered by the fact that Sansa had been zoning out. Again.

            “Seven hells, Sansa, what's with you?” The brown-haired girl didn't look away from her phone, fingers frantically typing away. Probably asking Gendry if he wanted to sneak out and go searching for hidden halls on campus. She didn't appear to be paying the least bit of attention to her sister. But that was Arya’s own way of showing tenderness.

             “It's nothing,” Sansa replied. “Just been swamped with school. And everything.”

            Arya offered her a second-long glance. Her bare foot tapped against the sofa. “Why don't you just quit some of that stuff? If you don't have time for it, don't do it.”

             “You know I can't.”

            Arya grunted, a non-committal thing. They'd had this conversation many times before, both in college and back in high school. Arya never offered anything more than a grunt or a shrug of shoulders at Sansa’s constant answer.

            Sansa _couldn't_ just drop everything; couldn't just drop even one thing. Every club and grade was vital, ever since Sansa could remember. All of her classmate’s whispered how much of an _over-achiever_ and _brown-noser_ she was, but that did nothing to change the fact that Sansa was the best.

            Besides, what would everyone think about her if she _did_ just quit?

             “Oh, Sansa, by the way, while you were spacing out your phone rang a couple of times. Thought you might've been ignoring them?”

            At that Sansa completely snapped back into reality. Had she missed a call from Petyr? He never contacted her before, not except for when he sent her directions to the restaurant. Maybe he had free time to meet earlier?

            Hope dashed against the wall.

            It was only her aunt (or more likely, her cousin Robert). Sansa had _accidentally_ given him a wrong number months ago, and he hadn't the wits to realize anything other than his phone was broken. Instead he'd borrow someone else's (his mother's, usually) and sneak conversations with Sansa. Ones that she couldn't just decline nor end early. Not if she didn't want to hear about her _rudeness_ and how _unfair_ she was being for the rest of Robert's life.

            Three calls in the last five minutes. It _had_ to have been Robert. Lysa wouldn't have bothered with more than half a call. Robert must still upset about Sansa missing his birthday. If only she didn't feel a tinge bit guilty about it with _what_ she missed it for.

_Ping._

            New notification saying she had a voicemail. And sure enough, it was Robert, who only spent the first thirty seconds whining. His voice still held that whiny tone of puberty – and that whiny tone of someone who'd never been told _no_ as a child. In the background, Lysa’s mumbled voice. Robert was calling to invite his _favorite_ cousin (and Arya) to his mother's birthday celebration and _demanded_ the presence of his favorite cousin (and as an afterthought, the other one (aka Arya)).

            He never was much a fan of Arya after she knocked Robert down the stairs and broke his wrist when he was nine. Though it did make it easier for Arya to ignore him – which in turn made Robert turn to Sansa instead.

            Sansa sighed. One more thing to deal with. She twirled her phone on the table as she relayed the information to Arya.

            “When is it?”

            “Uh, end of April? May? I don't remember Aunt Lysa's birthday, but somewhere then. We can probably use the ‘busy studying for exams’ excuse, though.”

            Thank the gods for that. Robert would definitely confront Sansa and _demand_ the fool-proof explanation that she had already forgotten. Sharing the ‘ _we’re_ _busy’_ lie with Arya meant it’d be less likely Sansa would slip up and share the tChataya.

            A knock on the door.

            Arya bolted upright, slamming her feet into her sneakers without pulling the heels out. She was through the door, slamming it behind her, before Sansa had a chance to ask if it was Gendry.

            Sansa sighed again. Alone with her thoughts on a weekday night? Never a good thing.

            She slid her phone away, grabbing papers and books and dove into homework to forget about that clawing ache inside of her.

            Sansa told herself it was because of the _order_ not to touch herself. Which, this week, was easier to do.

            But sometimes it didn't feel that way at all. Felt heavier, emptier.

            Felt like there was something missing inside of her, and Sansa didn't know what it was.

* * *

            The last time Sansa had been here it had already gone dark when she arrived. This time it was dusk. The briefest peak of sun along the horizon had set the towers’ crowns on fire like they had been flung into this world straight from Old Nan’s stories.

            Now – with the sun at least an hour from setting – yes, the whole of Harrenhal looked aflame. Sansa looked around for the dragons that might have set their anger upon the stones. All she saw was the sun, the sky clear with orange streaks slashing against blue. Perhaps the dragons had tired of the mortal world and took their rest in the core of that star. Waiting until dusk of each night before spewing fire all across Westeros.

_Hey,_ she texted Jeyne days ago, _I miiiight have a date thing this Saturday? I was hoping we could go shopping for a new dress and maybe you could give me some advice?_

            Sansa didn't have the courage to outright admit _what_ sort of advice she was hoping to gain from her friend. Advice on what she should expect now that there was the underlying promise of a lot _more_ to their lessons. Advice on how Sansa could better her body and mind to become the perfect sub that Petyr wanted to form her into. Advice on what sex was like and if it really did hurt.

            Except Jeyne never texted back.

            Even now, staring at the monstrous stones patched together with steel, Sansa checked for a reply. Nothing.

            Maybe Jeyne had finally tired of not having a friend in Sansa.

            She turned her phone on silent. Made sure her location and data were on. Made sure to install that app that would text Arya if Sansa didn't come home.

            Just in case.

            There were barely a handful of cars littering the grounds, Sansa could count them all on one hand. Closest to the main tower was that sleek grey car – a Jaguar, she realized, a few years old based on the shape of it. She couldn't help that small thrill that coursed through her body as she remembered: the smell inside, the feel of leather, the warm press of Petyr's fingers as he climbed higher and higher to her core.

            Sansa took in a deep breath.

            This was different tonight. No crowds of people filling the tower and grounds with moans of pleasure. No hostesses or strangers to watch the slow-sinking depravity of _a girl so young_. No last-minute phone calls to end the night early.

            It would be (for the better part) just her and Petyr and hours of _learning_.

            She checked her phone one more time out of a nervous habit. There were still several minutes before she needed to head out without looking _too_ eager. A notification from social media, a message from an old friend in Winterfell saying how he wanted to stop by and tell her happy birthday today since he was afraid he would forget tomorrow. Sansa marked it as unread and turned the screen off.

            She didn't want to think about how her birthday fell on a weekend. A Sunday, yes, but something pulled at the idea that whatever happened tonight was some lewd present that she could never share with her family.

            Petyr wouldn't even know it was her birthday unless she mentioned it. He didn't know anything about her unless she said – like at the restaurant, her telling all about her classes and projects. And he was the same too. Both of them told _just enough_ without revealing who they really were.

            Because at the end of the day, Sansa wasn't Petyr's. She was Joffrey's.

            Phone off. On. Off. Sansa left her car, smoothing down the front of her new dress against her thighs. It was blue, a deep shade of blue that it could be mistaken for black in the shadows. But outside against the fire of the sun, it shimmered against her skin. A darker hue of Tully eyes. The sun lit auburn curls into her own fire crowning her head.

            Down the pavement, up the stairs, passing by the columns she had stood beside as the stranger approached with his offer. As she stood by and felt that unmistakable _tug_ towards where Joffrey had been only fifty feet away. As Sansa stood and realized she had fallen into something she wasn't sure she wanted saving from.

            The door echoed her knocks back. Sansa stood straighter, smoothing out wrinkles again and feeling if her hair had survived the trek from the car to the door. There was unease fluttering in her stomach. Unease and excitement.

            From inside, footsteps. Slow, sure things. The door swung open.

            It… that's not Petyr.

            “Please come inside,” the woman said. She had red hair, too, but a sweet blonde hue and cut in short waves tickling her neck. The woman kept her head tilted down, eyes never meeting Sansa's. Her body moved far out of the way, hand gracefully extended inwards, to allow Sansa to enter.

            After a moment, Sansa said, “Thank you,” and followed the woman inside.

            A wave of ... excitement? struck Sansa as her heels clicked against the wood and stone flooring. The spaces seems so sad without people spread throughout, almost as if it was _meant_ to be filled with throngs. That, and the towers themselves had been originally built ridiculously huge, the builders having no idea what ‘moderation’ was. Petyr in his rebuilding had built up walls to separate the massive room into smaller ones – but even then the main hall and those leading off were spacious. (At least, Sansa thought it him that commissioned the work. Based on what Old Nan warned, Harrenhal was haunted and no one since its destruction dared to step foot in it, let alone buy it and turn it into something profitable. Perhaps that just added another layer of _excitement_ for those that came here. And those that _came_ here).

            The woman’s brown skin glowed in the sunlight creeping through the windows. She motioned Sansa towards one of the smaller rooms, one that she hadn't seen during her first time here.

            “Sir will be with you shortly,” the woman said. A lithe, deep bow before Sansa was left alone.

            She couldn't help but wonder who the lady was. Perhaps one of the serving woman from the party? Surely Petyr had to have his own entourage of employees if throwing lavish sex parties was his means of profit.

            A wicked little thought wondered if perhaps this woman was _Petyr's._ His sub, or his girlfriend or wife. If somehow Sansa was getting mixed up with a man who she definitely shouldn't be cavorting with (aside from him being older). There were an infinite reasons why Sansa’s warning alarms had gone off, and she didn’t realize one of them should be because he was already taken.

            “Were you waiting long, sweetling?”

            Sansa jolted, turning to see the man himself. Petyr was leaning against the stone door frame. He looked comfortable – how long had he been there, staring, watching?

            “Not too long, Sir.” Given their locale this weekend, Sansa thought it best to only refer to him as _Sir_ unless he asked. That, and he addressed her as _sweetling_. Not Sansa. This wasn't a date or a lewd shopping trip. Today would be a proper lesson in the ways of submission.

            The thought sent a shiver crawling down her spine.

            Petyr didn't move as he said, “Good. I take it you met Chataya on your way in?” Sansa nodded. Petyr called into the hallway beyond for the woman, who walked into the center of the room. Still her head tilted down. She glided into the room with heels higher than Sansa's, steps smooth and hips swaying. Chataya had since discarded all of her clothes – and she was even more beautiful naked.

            Slowly, smoothly, Chataya went to the center of the room, kneeling in those impossible heels without once ankles or knees buckling in protest. A single, fluid motion of her body. Hands resting lightly atop thighs. Breasts pushed forward. Head lifted and gaze focused on nothing in particular.

            Sansa was enthralled.

            Petyr didn't acknowledge Chataya as she moved. He continued, “You haven't been bad and touched yourself without my permission, have you Sansa?”

            “No, Sir. But there were a few times I wanted to.”

            “Good. And if you had, I'm sure it wouldn't have felt as good as my fingers. Or my tongue. Or cock.”

            A flitter of heat washed through her.

            Sansa had been staring at Chataya but her eyes shot up to him. Was this lesson one in losing her virginity? Which she knew would happen at some point, whether now or by the time their lessons finished. But...the idea, the _realization_ , that Sansa would lose it to Petyr instead of Joffrey set her at unease.

            “Your tongue did nothing my own fingers couldn't. Sir.” Petyr smiled. He liked it when Sansa teased him, she realized. Liked it when alleged innocence spoke of things far from innocent. Sansa meanwhile had been testing out crude remarks with Myranda, who was only too happy to reply with things even worse. Sansa needed only channel her friend if it meant earning those wicked smirks (and, she imagined/hoped, orgasms that would top the ones from last week).

            “Oh? Then I must have misremembered how _loud_ you were screaming for more? How hard you came the second time? A challenge, then, to prove that my tongue certainly knows how to please you, sweetling.”

            Sansa blushed.

            “But first,” he went on, pushing off from the frame. Petyr wore black slacks and a grey sweater. They complemented his hair – Sansa wondered if the sweater was as soft. She could still feel the curls wrapped around her fingers as he ate her out. “To make up for last week, we'll be having two lessons tonight.”

            She looked back up into his eyes. “Two, Sir?”

            A nod. “The _fun_ in the store wasn't planned. I meant to keep you waiting and wanting for _much_ longer, sweetling. But you had been so good in following my suggestion, and you had looked so fucking beautiful, I couldn't help _wanting_ to know how you felt. How you tasted.”

            Sansa felt the blush rising in her cheeks, up to the tips of her ears. She managed a reply with only the slightest quiver in her voice, “And how did I taste?”

            Petyr stood an arm's length away staring up at Sansa with a smirk that would rival the monsters from Old Nan’s stories. “Wonderful. So good I'm tempted to have another taste before you leave tonight.”

            That blush flooded every remaining inch of her skin, inside and out. The soft ache between her legs grew, _demanding_ to be touched and licked. Sansa had to fight not to squeeze her thighs together.

            “First lesson. A sub is perfection. Poise, grace, obedient. Powerful. A different power completely than that their Dom wields. The power to make every person in the room _want_ them, even if they don't know it.”

            Petyr stepped away, circling Chataya in a slow circuit as he spoke, finally acknowledging the woman.

            Even Sansa had momentarily forgotten about Chataya, even though the woman stood so close by. Still Chataya hadn’t moved. If Sansa hadn’t seen the woman walk in, she might have thought her to have been the most beautifully carved statue in all the seven kingdoms. She was art and beauty. But more – warm and alive and, yes, powerful.

            Sansa understood – there had been something about the grace with which Chataya carried herself as she walked in. The complete lack of fear at being naked in front of people. The high tilt to her chin, the way Chataya looked like she wasn't acutely aware of what they were doing or saying. It was mesmerizing.

            “Exactly,” Petyr said, as if reading Sansa’s thoughts. She pulled her eyes away from tracing the smooth dark skin. “A subtle power.”

            Sansa thought back to last week. To the women asking her to disrobe, moving silently around her body, measuring and judging in twin silence. Meanwhile Sansa stood there, unmoving. Unwilling to bare herself to strangers. The fear coiled inside her, the primal need to run and hide.

            On and on her mother's voice whispered in her mind then. About how only lowlife girls showed off their bodies like that – tight or loose or no clothes. How scuzzy they were for having sex before marriage. How a woman had to respect herself and her body.

            But the more and more Sansa sank to those supposed levels of _lowlife_ and _scuz_ zy, the more and more Sansa wondered if her mother was right. If a woman respecting herself meant covering up and closing legs. Or if a woman respecting herself was like Chataya and the type of sub Petyr was training her to be. Someone who knew their body and loved it, period.

            “What do I need to do, Sir?” _To respect myself? To love myself and sex and all the uncouth parts of life?_

_To be the sort of person perfect for Joffrey?_

            “Chataya, to your dismay sweetling, makes it look easy. There's training of a sorts to carry oneself with grace and confidence.” His words then spoke to the woman in question without once turning to address her. “Sub, stand and present yourself.”

            Chataya stood swiftly and smoothly onto bare feet, turning around such that her hair lightly brushed against her jaw. She faced Petyr, head up but eyes down. A small curtsy before Chataya held her breasts and pushed them up and in.

            Sansa would have been a little uncomfortable if she hadn't been paying attention to the woman's movements. Petyr was right – no wobbling, no trembling. Almost as if it was as simple as breathing. And without a shred of embarrassment that Sansa was feeling for her.

            “Good. Pinch your nipples until I tell you to stop.”

            Chataya did, without hesitation. Sansa felt her own squirm.

            Petyr looked at Sansa. He had to have caught her flinch. She didn't dare look at him – this was an example, but also a taste perhaps for what Petyr had planned for her tonight. He turned back to Chataya a minute later. “You may stop, sub.”

            The woman slowly released herself, her nipples hard and red from the pressure. There was only calm as Chataya said, “Thank you, Sir.”

            “You've been wonderful, sub, thank you for your help. Feel free to get yourself off before you leave.”

            Chataya nodded. Her feet were silent as she made her way through the doorway. Her hips a slow sway beckoning anyone to look and stare.

            “Your turn, sweetling. Kneel down and face the window. Doms will often expect you to be in this position or a position of their choosing while you wait for them.”

            Sansa was still staring where Chataya had gone. She didn't say anything for a while. Finally, she asked, “Just like her? Sir?”

            He nodded. “She's one of Oberyn’s favorites. And for good reason. One of the best this side of the Narrow Sea. I considered having her stay but thought it might be easier for you to practice without an audience. Well, without an audience more than one.”

            That was...considerate. Maybe he noticed more than the shape of her ass last week at the store. Maybe he had been _assessing_ her: her comfort, her confidence. And he _had_ – Sansa remembered Petyr asking her to _look_ at herself in the mirror. To love herself.

            And in that, he chose to ease her in by letting her practice without the shadow of Chataya’s quiet gaze. Without constantly wondering what the woman was thinking about, if she was seeing how poorly Sansa was. Judging how young Sansa was.

            “Thank you, Sir.” Petyr cocked his head slightly. She went on, toying with the hem of her dress. “Should I take my clothes off to practice?”

            Petyr swept his eyes over her. The exposed skin at her collar, the thin slice at her thigh that almost begged for someone to carelessly wander fingers up. Matching the deep blue of her dress with her eyes. Petyr stared into her eyes for a long while (he had to have been picturing both scenarios, weighing them, wondering whether to worry at his own ache by seeing her naked again.) Some logic must have won out. “For now, you can try it in your dress. You can take your heels off if they hurt, but you'll need to learn how to be graceful both barefoot and in six-inch heels.”

            Sansa never wore heels that tall. Her mother always pursed her lips at them, especially when paired with skimpy dresses (like the one Sansa was wearing). Sansa couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to completely tower over Petyr. And then wonder whether he preferred her much taller, or at her natural height. Either way he was shorter.

            She tried to remember how tall Joffrey was. And whether he would prefer her wearing massive heels, too.

            “Sweetling,” Petyr began, breaking her out of her thoughts. “A word of warning. When a Dom allows you something – from wearing clothes, or allowing you to remove something uncomfortable, or even fucking you on a bed or carpet instead of the floor – you should thank them. It's only kind.”

            A cold heat of embarrassment washed through her. A ringing voice of _wrong wrong wrong._ “Sorry, Sir. Thank you. I'll get started.”

            Sansa took a quick breath, remembering how Chataya had carried herself into the room. The grace with which she knelt, how she steeled her body not to move. How Chataya kept her head high despite how naked and how submissive she was making herself.

            Sansa tried to keep her back straight as she folded her legs beneath her, tried not to flap her arms for balance when a foot teetered. Down. Straightening her back, lifting her chest and her chin as she placed her palms against her thighs. An image of Chataya, an objective view of the precise way the woman sat. The fabric of Sansa's dress had to ride up a little to accommodate the slight spreading of legs. Her breasts pushed further out until her back began to protest.

            She stared at the window all the while, mostly to avoid Petyr's judgement. He didn't walk around her like he had Chataya. But like Chataya, he kept Sansa sitting there until the muscles in her thighs began to prickle and her feet fighting to stay upright.

            “Stand up, take a breath, and do it again until you get it right.”

            A foot wobbled – Sansa shot out a hand to steady herself. Petyr didn't make a comment about it as she attempted to stand with the same grace. But it was far from perfect, and already Sansa could feel an ache in her legs.

            During her breather, she kept her gaze focused on the window still, the faint shadows of the Vale mountains cutting against a darkening sky. Focused on the peaks, on the sparse clouds above. Not at all wanting to let Petyr see the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. It was _wrong_ , she was _wrong_.

            Sansa ran through Chataya’s movements again, wondering if there _had_ been something she missed, or if Petyr just wanted to catch a glimpse of her ass as she bent down again.

            One more time. It wasn’t better the second time, what with legs already growing tired and heart a cold thing of disappointment. The prickling in her feet intensified, the short heels doing nothing short of good for getting it right.

            “Not quite. Again.”

            Sansa bit the inside of her lip as she nodded and forced herself up.

            It wasn’t until several attempts later that Petyr said, “That's enough.”

            She was sitting down again, her legs sore, her breath tired, her feet barely managing not to topple beneath her. But he didn’t say she could stand, or rest, so Sansa remained uncomfortable and on the verge of crying. At least the only thing she did right was keep tears at bay.

            “I told you you could take your heels off if they hurt, and they would've made it easier. Why didn't you?”

            Sansa could feel him standing just behind her. Which made her straighten up despite how much her back was screaming.

            “I'm sorry, Sir, I'll be better next time.” Almost a crack at the end.

            “That's not what I asked you, Sansa.”

            She imagined him standing with arms crossed, staring down at her. Sansa wondered if from his vantage up there he could see the glint of water welling beneath her eyes. If he could see straight through her hair and her skin and bones to her heart that was aching.

            Honesty. A different sort – not to admit what turned her on or to talk freely about sex and _uncouth_ matters. But why Sansa was three seconds away from a breakdown.

            Because she wasn't good enough to do this simple thing. How in seven hells was she supposed to magically be great in a few short months if she was so heinously unprepared and inexperienced?

            Maybe she should just stop now. Leave before Petyr saw her cry and text him she was _done_.

            “Sansa.” Not a question of _are you okay,_ or _do you need me to leave so you can cry_. A demand of honesty.

            Several short breaths to hide her trembling voice. “I just... I'm not as good at this as I thought I might be.”

            There was silence in his reply. Was Petyr mulling over her response, or was he silently waiting for more?

            Another minute passed, and _more_ it was.

            “I… It didn’t look that difficult, and I suppose I was surprised at how bad I was at it.”

            A pause before he spoke: “Haven't you ever failed at something before?”

_Of course not_.

            Except she had, of course. Her lips loved telling that lie. Her brain demanded it. And Petyr would have seen through it.

            But he didn't sound condescending? Understanding, maybe. Probing below the skin of Sansa Stark to see who she was beneath sweet smiles and flawless perfection.

            A cracked thing, constantly on the edge of falling apart.

            “Yes, but… I wanted to be good at this.”

            There it was – the honesty hiding between the tremble in her voice.

            “Why?”

_Why?_

            Petyr beat her to it: “Because you've been told you have to be perfect, and part of you can’t bear to let people down. So you’re _always_ perfect. And any imperfection shatters the fine web of lies you masquerade as.”

            Sansa wasn't used to people pointing out her flaws, namely because she buried them deep deep inside her. His words would have been offensive were they not true. It was the quiet voice inside her made real.

            She gave a slight nod.

            A rustle of fabric. A warmth cradling her chin, lifting it from where it had been slowly sinking. Sansa dragged her eyes away from the darkening landscape outside to stare into mossy grey eyes.

            “You're not perfect, Sansa.”

            Something inside her fell. Froze. Burned and blew into a torrent that threatened those already-moist eyes to cascade onto the floor.

            He continued before they did. “But that's being human, sweetling. Knowing your flaws. Accepting them or using them, it's up to you.” A thumb brushed past her eye, swiping the tears before they had a chance to fall. “You did alright today, and with practice you could be as good as Chataya. You could be even better.”

            There was his other hand rubbing her back in soft, soothing circles.

            Sansa bit her lips to fight back against sobs. It was hard to stare into Petyr’s eyes – because of the hazy look of tears, but more because she wasn't sure if he was truly saying the words or not. If Petyr only knew the sorts of kindnesses that would quell a woman’s tears because he'd cause plenty of them.

            Or if – maybe – he did mean it.

            Her lip hurt. Her throat felt constricted, the ache in her legs and abdomen worsened by fighting against the sobs that were tempting to wreck through every part of her. She pressed against Petyr's hand on her back, letting the motion soothe the ache in her soul.

            She hated being weak in front of people. Hated proving that she wasn't good, or great, or perfect. Hated that no one let her be average.

            Sansa hated Petyr for not treating her the same. She loved him for it, too.

            Through her tears and a cracking voice, Sansa whispered, “Punish me.”

            Petyr stared at her, a mixture of everything lining his face: sadness and comfort and excitement and intrigue. And upon lips that were always so turned in that little smirk, Sansa saw the beginning of a _no_.

            Quieter: “I did something _wrong_. I deserve it.”

            The grip on her chin tightened just a bit, the hand on her back stalled in its ministrations. It loosened, it continued. Sansa sniffled back the tears and steeled her gaze into his.

            After long, quiet moments, Petyr finally responded. “It won't be the sort of punishment like if you failed to follow the rules, sweetling. But if that’s what you want.. Are you sure?”

            Sansa wasn't sure she could explain what it was. The physical need, _proof_ , that she failed and had to get better. The physical need to expel the dark thoughts plaguing her mind. The physical ache that always fatigued her whenever she did something (even the smallest thing) wrong.

            She nodded.

            Petyr released his hands from her, clasping them together between his kneeled legs. “Okay, Sansa. Would you like to keep your dress on or off?”

            She mulled on that. A part of her told her she _deserved_ the humiliation of being naked. A part of her told her she didn't deserve the intimacy.

            “Can I keep it on, Sir?”

            He nodded. “You may. But please take off your heels.”

            Petyr moved to sit on the couch she had when Chataya brought her in. One arm strung over the top, the other smoothing over the knees of his slacks.

            The straps of her heels had left heavy indents on her skin. Her toes still prickled from kneeling, it was an effort to walk the short distance without stumbling over.

            When she brushed her own knees next to his, Petyr said, “Raise your dress up to your waist and remove your underwear. If you're wearing any.”

            Sansa's hands moved of their own accord. How easy life would be if she could shut her brain off and let things happen. But even now on autopilot, still her mind whispered it's anthem of _failure_.

            When the dress rose above her hips, that lovely little smirk was back on Petyr's lips. At least she managed one thing right.

            “Beautiful,” he murmured before spreading his legs apart. Sansa saw his fingers itch to touch her, to remember the feel of her lips as his pumped inside her. “Stand between my legs and bend over. You can grab them for balance.”

            “Yes, Sir. Thank you,” she said, positioning herself between and over him. His slacks were rough against her bare thighs. It took a few tries to find a spot that was comfortable enough – her ass high, her hands clasped around a shin. He didn't move or pressure her to hurry up. “Ready, Sir.” His other leg clamped around her thighs.

            “I'm going to warm up your skin before I begin,” Petyr said, his voice soft. Part of her wished it wasn't. That he truly delved into doling out punishment as she deserved for failing. But even this Petyr seemed wary about. So Sansa kept quiet. “How many do you deserve, sweetling?”

_Not enough._

            Sansa heard it again. A feigned sort of reluctance. And felt it, too – Petyr's hand resting gently atop her skin, warm fingers moving imperceptibly.

            She licked her lips, adjusted her grip around his leg. Sansa thought she might have felt his skin shudder. “As many as you think I deserve, Sir.”

            “Good answer, sub.”

            He never called her that – sweetling or Sansa. This was impersonal. This was her punishment.

            His hands were warm, palms trailing over her ass and the backs of her thighs. Petyr increased speed and pressure slowly, working at her soft flesh with one hand while the other pressed at the small of her back, keeping her still and in place. But it was soft, too soft.

            “I’m going to smack your ass first, one on each cheek.”

            Sansa waited, clenching her hands and teeth and muscles in anticipation. Waiting, eagerly. It didn't come, not even after she counted off ten seconds. She began to crane her head back to look up at him–

_Smack_.

            Sansa yelped, managing to catch the swear on her lips. The force almost had her whacking her head onto Petyr’s leg, caught unaware. But the warmth and pain spreading through her skin – yes, gods yes. That lingering, ever-present shadow in her mind slunk slowly away.

            “It would feel better if you relaxed into it, sub,” Petyr said matter-of-factly. His hand was already running over the pain, soothing it, preparing for the second strike.

            “Thank you, Sir. I'll keep that in mind.” Except it was a war between her mind and her body. Wanting the base feeling of the pain but fearing it too.

            “I’m going to strike you three times, one on top it other cheek and one each to your thighs. Count them off.”

            She didn't have time to voice her understanding before Sansa felt his hand leave hers and prepare for the next.

            Relax – _smack_.

            Sansa yelped again. But not entirely from pain. Easing herself into him instead of shrinking away. The pain was so much more delicious.

            When he didn't start again she remembered his order. “One. Sir.”

_Smack_.

            The words were still on her lips when Petyr striked: the flesh of her left thigh, just below her ass. It stung like seven hells. There was less padding there to absorb the brunt force of Petyr’s blow. Sansa’s grip tightened in preparation for the next. “Two.”

_Smack_.

            Sansa let the cry fall from her lips without biting it back. Let her back arch up against his hand pressing her down. There was an ache between her thighs (she realized after shifting her body back over his leg, having let the force of Petyr's strikes move her further down towards the floor). It wasn't the flushed ache from deft blows – it was heavier, hotter, wetter.

            “Three, Sir.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.

            “Do you think that's deserving of your failure, sub?”

            Sansa arched her neck so she could see him in the sliver between his thigh and the sofa. Petyr’s face was a map of hard lines and furrowed brows. But even with pain lacing her legs and an ache forming in her bent neck, Sansa caught a glimmer of softness in mossy green. Felt it in the softness of warm fingers running over flushed skin.

            When Sansa said (practically _begged_ through a heaving breath), “No, Sir,” there was a momentary pause across her ass and a momentary flash of _something_ in those lines.

            Gone – Petyr hid it as quickly as his fingers resumed their course. A fingernail etched soft circles into the meat of her ass.

            “Almost, sub. You should have said, ‘Only if Sir thinks I've had enough’.”

            Sansa repeated him, adding in the most demure voice she could, batting lashes, “Only if Sir thinks I've had enough. Except, I think I do deserve more. Sir.”

            She didn't know what was wrong with her. Punishment was something she spent years, if not decades, avoiding. The wrath of doing something remotely wrong. The fear of it.

            This unnatural need of hers to want it went against every instinct she drilled into her or had drilled into her.

            But it felt so good.

            The look Petyr gave Sansa in response, however brief, made her sure he was thinking the same thing.

            “Alright. Only because the sounds you're making make me wonder how you'll sound once I'm fucking you.”

            In all, Petyr slapped her ten times all across her ass and thighs. Sansa wondered if perhaps her skin was as red as her hair. And of not, how sweetly would she need to ask for Petyr to cave in until they were?

            “That's enough for now, sweetling.”

            Sansa felt her body being lifted from its hunched position. Petyr lent a hand to help her into a sitting position across his legs, her head pressing into a shoulder as Petyr wrapped arms lightly around her. One had smoothed the dress down an inch, the other righted auburn curls.

            Petyr had called for someone who's name Sansa couldn't hear through the wave of warmth washing over her. It had drowned her brain into nothing more than a sickening pleasure. It was far from the warmth of when he made her come. It was…validation, of a sorts.

            “Move your ass, sweetling. I'm going to rub some ointment on the marks so they'll heal faster.”

            She did as she was told. The gel was cold against burning skin, it was almost as shocking as when Petyr smacked her the first time. Slowly he worked it in (and Sansa thought he took more time than necessary).

            “Thank you, Sir,” she said when he had finished.

            Then the thoughts came flooding back.

            Her failure. The fact that Petyr had seen her break down over something so trivial. He had seen her tears and heard her choking sobs.

            He had punished her. And now he would throw away this broken thing that didn't live up to impossible expectations.

            Sansa shoved her face into Petyr's shoulder to hide her tears. He froze at the sudden movement, slowly placing his arms around her again. It was soothing. And that soothe made it harder to hold back the sobs.

            He was going to end it. She knew it.

            She didn't want this thing to end.

            She didn't want to say goodbye.

* * *

_Petyr didn't know what he was going to do with her._

_A game. A distraction._

_That's what he saw in the innocent little thing at Joffrey's party weeks ago. Someone who stepped foot over the threshold and immediately wished she could be anywhere else but there. It was writ in her eyes and fumbling fingers and poised back._

_Except (and definitely with a heavy dose of reluctance) the girl walked in and made an attempt at wanting to be there. It was a failed attempt, yes, but she wandered through for a lot longer than Petyr gave her credit for._

_Certain scenes gave her pause. Certain acts of depravity caught the girl's attention, even if something inside her screamed at her to run._

_And finally she did._

_Petyr was content in just watching her leave, her ass swaying in that delicious low-cut dress, her hair moving like cascades across her back. A waterfall of fire._

_And then she paused._

_Petyr turned to follow her gaze and caught sight of that golden-haired bastard._

_Caught a wicked idea in his mind._

_A game. He could make a game of her, see how far the perfect little girl was willing to fall to be with a boy deserving of nothing but a proper smack across the face. Joffrey would be the boy of her affections, but Petyr would make sure she never talked with him or met with him until Petyr deemed her ‘ready’. Which would be never._

_Petyr stepped quietly to the girl, soft golden light casting her in a shimmering glow. She turned to him, reluctant to tear her gaze and imagination away._

_And Petyr gasped._

_He was teleported twenty years into his past. He felt the hot slice of blood lining his chest._

_Blink._

_No, she was still standing there, a vision made flesh._

_Petyr didn't ask her name because at least in his own deluded imagination he could pretend it was_ her _._

_The girl wouldn't call. Maybe. It could go either way, really. He kept his phone with him at all times, just in case. Giving her a week. If she went further than that, he would feign forgetfulness._

_But she did call just as that week was nearing an end. And Petyr_ had _to know her name. Was she truly a second chance? Was she truly a thing made of blood and flesh and not smoke and regret?_

_Sansa._

_It rolled off his tongue. He couldn't stop saying it, out loud or in his mind._

_He wondered what it tasted like._

_Except she'd need to earn it._

_He listened intently as she put her phone down and stripped. Listened to the gradual rise and fall of her quickening breaths. Listened as he gave her the command and she dutifully followed. Each breath and moan. The silent movement of slick fingers inside her. The ache of the bed beneath her as she worked herself over and over towards the edge._

_Petyr nearly forgot to tell her to stop._

_He had ordered her not to come, but the moment he hung up he rubbed himself off._

_Gods, what was wrong with him?_

_Next time he'd have more control, certain now that Petyr would see and hear Sansa again. Touch her._

_Just one small touch. A little taste._

_He'd thought they'd do it in the back of his car, or pressed against the side of the building after their appointment. But the bare sight of her standing there, the ache pushing inside him to feel her. It was a miracle he hadn't excused the women before they did their measurements. They certainly wouldn't have worked then. But touching her and tasting her in their studio – Petyr had to pay handsomely in cash and apologies._

_It was reckless. But Sansa… gods there was something about her that Petyr was drawn to._

_And then today._

_Today was supposed to be simple. A collection of lessons meant to teach her with the excuse of feeling her lips on his cock. Or maybe feeling her walls press around him as he pumped inside her. Petyr would have to play his teacher role well enough to get to that point this early._

_But this was unexpected._

_Sansa was, without a doubt, someone who lived on perfection. It wasn't done as a habit – it was who she was. It pumped through her veins like blood. Whispered down her throat as the very air she breathed._

_Failure hit her harder than Petyr thought._

_At first – a ploy, perhaps. Sansa using doe eyes to get out of something uncomfortable. But the reek of failure emanated from every pore, from every tear Sansa willed not to fall._

_It was the first time Sansa realized she wasn't perfect or good at being a sub. And all other feelings of uncertainty took hold in that crack of her walls and whispered their illness into her mind. Which meant (from how simple the keeling exercise had been) Sansa had been on the verge of breaking down for a long, long time._

_Which Petyr thought was what he wanted. He wanted – all those weeks ago – to prove to this naive thing that she didn't belong. That she should go back to reading banal stories of gallant knights who always saved the beautiful princess and they lived happily ever after._

_Petyr's fingers ran along her shoulders. She was warm, but she was shivering. Petyr pressed lips to the top of her head, to comfort her and inhale the sweet scent that always lingered on Sansa. It was a drug that he hadn't realized he had been taking. Engorging himself with._

_“It's okay, sweetling,” he whispered. “You did your best. You'll have to practice, and next week you’ll be better. And the week after that you’ll be better.”_

_An unspoken promise that this thing – whatever it was between them – wasn’t over. Unless she wanted it to be._

_Sansa paused her shivering, pressing her face further into his shoulder. A part of her hated that Petyr was telling her she wasn't perfect. But Petyr wondered if she liked it, too. The relief that came with not having to be good immediately at everything around one person. The relief that she could truly be herself. And also the confusion – not knowing what that was like anymore._

_“Now, sweetling,” Petyr began, lightly pushing Sansa's head away so he could lift her chin. Her eyes – so blue, so deep that Petyr caught himself drowning every time he stared into them. There was an errant curl plastered on her forehead. He swiped it away._

_“Yes, Sir?” Quiet._

_She was at least obedient. Always had to be, he imagined._

_Petyr knew that he had to tread carefully. He didn't want Sansa to run away. He didn't want to lose someone else._

_“There are still many things I wanted to teach you today.” Petyr let his thumb gently caress her flushed cheek. “You can safe word if everything's been too much today, and we can continue your lessons later when you feel better.” Sansa turned her eyes into his neck. “Or, if you feel alright, we can finish up tonight.”_

_The night was still young. He couldn't imagine whiling it away by himself. He didn't want to._

_Petyr glanced out the tall window, dusk heavy in the night sky, setting the landscape in rich hues of purple. Off in the distance was the Vale, its mountains barely visible shadows._

_Back to Sansa. Her own fingers wove it's way between them to play with the collar of his sweater. Even through the fabric he felt that_ pull _that he tried to ignore since he first spied Sansa. Did she feel it, too? Did it pull her towards him with the same force, the same unrelenting urge to close the distance they had between them now? Inches seemed a cavernous abyss._

_Sansa spoke quietly, her gaze focused on the grey fabric. “I'm sorry, Sir. I promise I'll do better next time.”_

_Something clutched at Petyr’s chest. A real action at her words ‘I'm sorry’._

_“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sweetling.” He wanted to tug her chin and stare in her eyes as he said it. But Petyr kept twitching fingers at bay as they curled in the velvet of her hair. “I told you – you can practice, and next time you'll be better. And better and better until you're the most beautiful and obedient sub in all of Westeros.”_

_Her lithe fingers paused for a fraction. Then: they crossed the gap from sweater to the black shirt he wore underneath. The heat emanating from her fingertips was scorching. So close to his bare flesh._

_Words caught in her throat. Petyr coaxed, “Say them, sweetling. Whatever you're feeling, or thinking, or worrying about. There’s no need to keep things bottled up between you and your Dom.”_

_Lesson after lesson seemed to revolve around honesty._

_Lesson after lesson Petyr never alluded_ who _her Dom would be. Joffrey, if Sansa could survive the war between her mind and her heart. But that fragment of a thought left a bitter taste in his mouth._

_“Why… Why do you lie all the time, Petyr?”_

_Petyr flinched. A physical wound slicing at his chest from her words. “What do you mean, sweetling?”_

_A fingertip toyed with the edge stitching of his shirt collar. Millimeters separated flesh. “You say it's okay to fail.”_

_He had been so focused on her fingers that when Petyr looked up he came into gaze with Sansa. Hurt and confusion and hope – hope that Petyr truly wasn't lying._

_Which he wasn't. As hard as that was for himself to believe._

_“I'm not, Sansa. I'm only trying to teach you, as I've always done. And right now I'm telling you it's okay to fail. A little bit, or completely fuck something up. There's no shame in failure unless you don't pick yourself back up.”_

Believe me _, he was saying with his eyes and his words._ Believe that you are perfect, but you don't need to be _._

_Sansa chewed her bottom lip, chewed on his words as she lowered her gaze and continued playing with his shirt. Petyr wished he could open her mind and read all of her quiet thoughts. There was only so much he could glean from eyes. And like Petyr, Sansa learned to hide as much as she could from view of everyone._

_“I don't want you to lie to me. Please, Petyr.”_

_Another tug at his chest. Petyr pulled back, pulled at Sansa and hoped that she could feel it in her chest, too._

_All he said was, “I won't, Sansa. Ever.”_

_She looked at him again, removing fingers from his collar. She pushed back, wincing as she maneuvered herself until she was lightly straddling his legs, arms straight and pressing against his shoulders. The hem of her dress bunched up at her hips. Petyr wished she had turned around so he could marvel at the redness covering her ass. The pain Sansa asked for._

_A wicked thought hoped Sansa would ask for it a lot more._

_There wasn't a smile to her lips, but instead determination. To continue even if she completely fucked up. To continue even if she was a failure._

_It was a step. A huge one for her._

_“When does the second lesson begin, Sir?”_

_Petyr’s hands rested on her hips, and he knocked back the thought that whispered how perfectly they fit atop her. Slowly he rubbed circles just above where the dress bunched._

_“Right now, sweetling, if you’re up to it. How do you feel about being tied up?”_

_Sansa's eyes widened, both at the slow press of his thumbs and at whatever deplorable images were filling her mind. Slowly, slower than the ministrations of his hands, Sansa rocked her hips. Petyr wondered: Did any of the wicked images have Petyr, or was she still living her silly fantasy of wanting to entertain that Lion twat?_

_Licking her lips, she said, “I wouldn't be opposed, Sir. Are you still going to have me suck your cock when I'm bound?”_

_He smiled, a wicked little thing that did nothing to hide the desire roiling inside him. Petyr noticed the small spread of her own wicked smirk playing at her lips. Wished that smiles would only ever grace that beautiful pink mouth._

_“Of course, sweetling. When you're ready, remove your dress and we'll begin.”_

 


	5. lesson 4: stricture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You know… when I said I wanted to break up the chapter so it wouldn't be 20k words... I was joking… So, uh, thanks for putting up with my long-ass chapters lol  
> (But actually though – thanks for reading / commenting / loving this fic!! I love all y'all too!!!)
> 
> Also if you have a suggestion for anything ~fun~ let me know. I might need to pad out a few plot points in this story with good ol sin.]

 

          Sansa took a deep breath.

          There was a warm flush spreading throughout her body that coiled with the ice that ran parallel inside her veins. They collided hard, reverberations felt even in her toes, turning her insides into a confusing explosion of lust and fear.

          Petyr had seen her break down. No one ever had – Sansa _never_ let herself crumble in front of people. Never ruined the perfect visage she'd built up. Never admitted to downright failing at something – excuses were common from her lips, explaining away with waves of hands why she wasn't particularly good. And then in the quiet of bathroom stalls or her bedroom, Sansa would cry until she was a hollow thing.

            Again, honesty. Petyr wanted to her to _admit_ to her failures and embrace them just as much as he wanted to teach her (and fuck her).

            Somehow this – embracing failure – seemed more impossible than submission.

            Sansa shoved the thoughts out. Forced the fire to burn hotter in her blood, melting the ice that eked its way from her fingers, up her arms, spreading as far as her toes. Everything but the coldest clutches around her heart burned away.

            She took in a breath. Stared at mossy grey eyes glazed over with dark desire. Felt that desire as she _oh so coyly_ trailed her hand from where it rest by his neck down the front of his sweater, down the front of his pants, before pushing herself off his legs. Petyr sucked in a breath as she felt the edge of his cock that was still hard despite her failure.

            It was difficult to get off of him, Sansa’s _everything_ aching. Her ass was married by his hand, the salve soothing. Her legs and core strained. She hadn't time to work out since freshman year – and admittedly, Sansa needed to get back in the swing of things. Especially if being a sub meant this much physical exertion (of which Sansa knew there would have been some via sex, but the rest was unaccounted for).

            Even as Sansa's body screamed at her, still she tried to maneuver herself off him without wincing. As gently and fluid as liquid. A shame she didn't manage that at all.

            Sansa undid the back of her dress, debating whether to look away and embrace an image of supposed innocence. Or to stare at Petyr while her fingers worked herself naked far too slowly. Him, she decided.

            Sansa made sure to take her time, keeping her eyes on him all the while. Glancing as he spread his legs a bit – making sure Sansa knew exactly how she was affecting him. When she had the zipper undone, holding dress held in her hands, the fabric lying just high enough to cover the peaks of her breasts, Sansa paused. She gave Petyr a once over, saying with a certain grin in her words “Why is it _I'm_ the one always undressing?”

            She hated and loved it, though. Hated the fear and embarrassment at whatever he thought of her body. Loved the thrill it sent every time she caught Petyr's whole attention. Every time she saw his fingers itch to touch her of their own accord before he had to restrain them back.

            Petyr had been doing just that, staring intently at the stark line between her pale skin and dark fabric. Then he looked at her, desire plainly written in that stare. Except… Sansa wondered if there was something _darker_ that filled his face for a moment before it was drowned by evident lust. He leaned back into the sofa. “Since I'm teaching you out of my own _good nature_ , I figured I'd might as well get something out of it.”

            Sansa almost felt guilty until the catlike grin spread across his lips. Then, with dress still covering her, she found the courage to reply, “How _kind_ of you, Sir. Except I haven't given you the same good-natured attentions as you’ve given me.”

          “Which I plan to remedy tonight, sweetling.”

            Still that dark smile filled his face, spreading until every part of Petyr was pulled into that lust. Sansa wondered (aside from that devilish image he painted in her mind earlier) _how exactly_ he planned to relieve himself tonight. Or rather, how he planned to use Sansa for that.

            Was Petyr going to actually fuck her tonight?

            Would Petyr stop if she wasn't ready? Would Petyr be fine if Sansa asked to keep herself pure (enough) for Joffrey?

            Sansa chewed on an infinite barrage of questions that worked their way through a fire that was beginning to burn quietier. And through it, Petyr's voice: “If you truly aren't prepared, sweetling, we can end tonight.”

            Sansa dropped her dress in response.

            The kindness was gone completely. Sansa fought against the innate urge to cover up again. Fought against the voice that was yelling her _run away_. That was yelling at her: _the way he looks at you is anything but kindness_.

            Her fingers dug into her thighs as she shushed that nagging voice. She forced herself to stare at Petyr, to trace the soft curls of mixed black and grey just above his ears. The line of his jaw, the small flesh exposed at his neck. How the sweater sat on him, and what he might look like with it off. The obvious (and possibly hurting) press of his manhood against slacks.

            She stared and let her mind conjure up those delicious images again of the party that had been her constant companions in the past weeks. Except the more and more she remembered them, the more and more they became distorted. Not into a nightmare thing. But into Sansa seeing _herself_ fucked, _feeling_ the roughness of the fucking littering her flesh and muscles as if she truly had been. As if she hadn't been the naive little thing staring with mouth agape and mind screaming to leave.

            “Turn around, sweetling. Slowly.”

            Sansa did as she was told, upset that all she could stare at was the window. It was more of a mirror now, shadowed versions of her and Petyr staring back. She couldn't help but entertain the thought that these were their _true_ selves. Couldn't help but notice how much darker Petyr's shadow was compared to hers.

            “Red suits you, sweetling.” Sansa felt another shade of it sweep through her cheeks. A hand pressed against her ass, lightly rubbing at the marks that she could only picture. How red was she? How much of her skin did Petyr leave undefiled?

            “I hope you'll let me do it again,” he said. Though it was quietly enough it might have been Petyr talking to himself.

            Sansa gasped as she felt his fingers press lightly at a particularly nasty bruise on the flesh between her ass and thigh. Pictured the smirk as he reminisced the feel of creating it. She remembered it. The sound of her scream filling the tense silence as he struck her. The iron grip against his legs as she kept her balance. The pain, the reddening skin that _had_ to now match her hair if not her lips.

            Her gasp at his current touch, though, distorted as Petyr inched deft fingers slowly around the inside of a thigh. Running them down where his lowest strikes had fallen, and then up up up in a painfully slow travel towards her core. Whether it was this or the punishment Sansa asked for – either way, there was a _different_ sort of ache between her legs. An ache Petyr grew closer and closer to. Sansa held her breath, bit her lips, waiting for the plunge of fingers inside her.

            A soft slap to her ass had Sansa catching herself. So unexpected and caught up in his ministrations she was so certain would end with an orgasm – Sansa had forgotten her pleasure was at the whim of a _wicked_ man.

            Behind her, Sansa heard Petyr's soft chuckle. “Not yet, sweetling. Though I do promise you'll earn enough before the night is through.” She saw in the window that he had sat back down again, as of he hadn't been _so close_ to breaking his control either.

            “Of course, Sir,” she said, fighting back against that throbbing ache.

            She didn't turn to look at him – he hadn't given her the order to, and she didn't want Petyr to see just how turned on she was. He must have felt it, smelled it. Seen it, too, with the trembling in her legs.

            A few moments passed before Sansa heard Petyr stand, saw his shadow in the reflection. His voice sounded much closer than the window showed. “Our next lesson will take place somewhere else in The Mockingbird. So if you'll be so kind sweetling, I want you to crawl there please.”

            Sansa almost protested that the floor might be dirty (she'd seen _where_ and _how_ some people got off at the party). Not to mention it was the _floor_. But before she could voice it Petyr assured, “It's clean, sweetling. I maintain a reputable and sanitary den of depravity, I'll have you know. And besides, you won't be _clean_ for long anyhow.”

            He hovered inches behind her. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, could taste a lingering scent of mint as he spoke.

            Sansa fought back against another small wave of embarrassment as she knelt down with as much ladylikeness as she could. Which was twice difficult with sore muscles and a smoldering need coursing through out every inch of her. At the least she didn't bend over and reveal _everything._ Not as if Petyr hadn't seen it all already.

            She focused instead on all of the aches rather than whatever her hands and knees might be touching. The wood was cool, and Sansa could see the herringbone pattern in the slats.

            Petyr stepped around her in a slow circle like he did with Chataya, observing her as a sub and not as a girl who was trying to calm the worry and voices in her mind. When he stopped in front of her, Sansa kept her head turned down, allowing herself only to look at his polished shoes.

            “Raise your ass higher sweetling. And straighten your arms.”

            She did as she was told, self-conscious about the breeze that grazed marred flesh.

            “Good. A little higher.”

            It was borderline uncomfortable that Sansa was _sure_ Petyr adjusted her for his own pleasure. Except of it was, he'd surely be standing _behind_ her, imaging all sorts of wicked things he could do _with_ her and _to_ her in the position. She bit back against voicing either opinion.

            It wasn't until Sansa felt her arms start to wobble that Petyr spoke. “Perfect, sweetling. I want you to crawl in front of me as we head to the next room.”

            When she didn't immediately move, Petyr added, “Is something wrong?”

            Sansa licked her lips. “I… Promise you won't have me run into anything. Sir.”

            She heard the smile in his words. “Of course not. You'll have to _trust_ me. As I'll have to trust that you'll tell me when things become too much for you. Use your words.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            On and on he drove _trust_ and _honesty_ into Sansa. If he kept it up, she might actually do it of her own accord.

            Sansa turned around, peering beneath her to see if she was directly in front of Petyr. When she was, she lifted her ass just a fraction higher. She felt a light smack in response.

            “Go straight towards the door. When you get there turn left.”

            She moved slow enough to keep her position, though it meant her arms were going to kill her tomorrow. Which then meant it was going to be almost impossible to figure out her model for the next project Olenna was throwing at them. Or type up that research paper. Or copy the forms from today into the spreadsheet.

            The doorway. Left.

            Sansa wished he spoke more than just simple directions. Or that she could see him. She needed to focus on something beside reality that was kicking down her mind.

            “Go up the second set of stairs.”

            All the way up Sansa bit her lip, too aware of the fact that each step had her legs spreading apart. Too aware that Petyr stayed far back enough on the stairs to earn a hearty eyeful of the aching flesh between her legs – even though she didn't dare look back to confirm. Or he was still marveling at the redness he inflicted.

            “Third door on the right. Stop in front of it.”

            She did as she was told. By the time they made it to the next level all Sansa turned her focus on was the prick of pain in her palms and knees. A welcome distraction from the voices. A welcome distraction from the wicked stranger just behind her.

            First door. Second.

            Between that and the third, Sansa went and gave her hips an exaggerated sway, her hair moving in time too.

            The door was closed, which only heightened the intrigue and fear that mixed inside her stomach. That and the lust further down. Silence filled the air between them as Petyr stopped behind her again. And now in that silence hung infinite possibilities for what exactly would happen beyond the door. The infinite ways that Petyr would torture her and punish her and – finally after she _earned_ it – fucking her. With fingers or mouth or cock.

            “You have such a beautiful ass, sweetling. Thank you for the _exquisite_ display. I'll make sure you come to your heart's content.”

            A soft warmth filled her. “Thank you, Sir.”

            Petyr bent over her to twist the knob and pushed the door open – the fronts of his legs pushed lightly into her. As if he couldn't _wait_ to touch her.

            Sansa fought against every instinct to look.

            “Crawl inside until I tell you to stop.”

            She took a breath, then took ten steps before he told her to stop.

            The wood was darker in this room – to hide what fell upon it? Sansa tried her best not to think whether or not a dark spot just below her face was part of the grain or if it was something else.

            “Get into kneeling position, sweetling.”

            She did so, a feat that was made easier without her heels and already being low to the ground. Still her stomach barked in protest as Sansa straightened her back. Her legs were so tired they were almost numb save for her knees. The crawling had not been kind to them.

            The room wasn't a dark creepy thing, which helped alleviate an ounce of the fear tightening around her muscles. The lights above were warm. The room a bit bigger than her bedroom, though there was only one slim tall window to her left. She tried to picture the tower from the outside and where she might be inside it.

            But what else was in her room grabbed her attention and kept it.

          An odd sort of padded table that might have been from a doctor’s, save for the straps that hung against the edges. Two matching sets of drawers, holding what only gods knew. Certainly nothing kind.

            And – what truly caught her eye – a series of hooks. Some attached to the walls in various heights, with a select few arranged in either a T or X shape. Some attached to the ceiling or hanging from heavy pulleys. There weren't any on the floor – none that Sansa could see, at least.

            Her toes curled at the thoughts stampeding through her head.

            A part of her was surprised by the lack of a bed. That's where people usually had sex, or so she thought. Where people of good moral standing had sex, at least. But then she remembered the room at the lingerie boutique, and the other places her mind often wandered to: atop the table in the restaurant, in the back of his car, pressed against window or wall for all to see.

            A bed, at this point, would have been unusual.

            And Sansa… Sansa herself was constantly torn between what sort of _morals_ she was following now.

            “What are you thinking, sweetling?”

            Sansa tried to find Petyr before realizing he was still standing behind her. She whipped her head back to face forward, hoping the lapse didn't earn any ill will. “Just that I haven't seen this many hooks since my father took us fishing.” And even then, Ned didn't have _quite_ so many.

            Petyr breathed a laugh. “I can assure you there are plenty more in other rooms.” He finally left his post behind her walking through the room like a tour guide into depravity. Which, Sansa thought, he was for her. “There are various rooms above and below ground in the Mockingbird that can cater to all sorts of _needs._ Though I must admit the ones below are more, er, _specific_ in their depravity.”

            Sansa watched as Petyr finally turned to look at her. The soft light above cast his eyes into shadows. Turned the lines of his cheek bones sharp and the smirk at his mouth into something otherworldly wicked.

            “Which would you prefer tonight, Sansa? The hooks or the table? If you want me to explain what you're getting yourself into, feel free to ask.”

            She looked between the two of them. She could picture _how_ she would be bound, but aside from that, the machinations alluded her. Plus, she did promise to get him off tonight…

            “What would you do to me on them, Sir?”

            Petyr reached up to finger a hook, the soft metallic clank of it sending a shiver down Sansa's spine. “These hooks attached to pulleys allow a Dom to tie their sub to them and lift them until they're barely touching the floor. The sub is, essentially, at the mercy of their Dom. But the kinds of pain and pleasure the Dom can bring out with all sorts of whips and floggers… Well, subs have been known to pass out from their pleasure.”

            Sansa stared at it. At the trail his fingers was making along the thick curve of it.

            He moved to the hooks in the walls. “These provide a similar experience. Though there is something to be said about having your face pressed into the wall, your arms and legs spread, and left without any semblance of control over what your Dom can and will do.”

            She saw now that they were adjustable, the hooks. And the wall wasn't a cold barrage of grey stone – thin padding where the sub would be, to ease being pushed against it, and a hole where the head could rest. Well, not all of the wall had the padding.

            “And this,” Petyr strode to that table contraption. There were straps and loops on it, meant for rying up too. “A different sort of exposure and submission, but ultimately the same. Although I will note that it would be easier on your skin. And it will be easier for you to suck me off.”

            He turned on a heel, hands clasped behind him. “Which will it be, sweetling?”

            Sansa saw a ghost of herself in the various positions each of them would subject her to. The first thing she wanted to say was _which would my Dom prefer,_ although Petyr already made casual note of it. And then: _which would Joffrey prefer._ Because all of this, ultimately, was to earn his favor and be his.

            But Petyr was asking _her_ which she wanted.

            Not to mention by the time May rolled around – and Sansa gave herself as a sort-of present to Joffrey – he would expect Sansa to be accustomed to each of them. And a whole lot more.

            Her feet were under an onslaught of pins and needles by the time Sansa responded, licking her lips as she gave each of her options another look. “I think I would like to be bound with the hook and pulley, Sir. But... “ She trailed off.

            “Yes?” Petyr wasn't having any of her half-thoughts.

            Sansa looked at him then, focusing on the fuzziness in her muscles rather than the lewd combination of embarrassment and want coursing through her. “But, Sir, I hope you'll be kind enough to teach all of them to me.”

            Because she wanted it, yes. But because she wanted to be the perfect sub. She wanted to be the best fucking sub Joffrey would ever have.

            Petyr’s shadowed eyes grew darker. An equally dark thing playing at the corners of his lips. “Of course, sweetling.”

            He directed her to stand beneath the apparatus as he went to collect things from the drawers. Sansa stared up at the seemingly innocent hook dangling just out of her reach. She stood up on numb toes and tried to grab it to no avail.

            “If you feel uncomfortable or if something is hurting like it shouldn't, use _halt_ and I'll release you.” Petyr turned back to her as she stood back down, arms at her side and head tilted down. If he knew, he didn't say anything. “Look at this, sweetling.”

            She did. Petyr had a pair of dark leather cuffs with a small hook at the center of the chain that connected them. There was a soft fabric on the insides and at ends. “To keep your wrists from chafing and bleeding,” he explained. He also explained that there were other kinds of cuffs, some for ankles that could keep legs apart. Petyr said he wanted to judge how she felt with just wrists restrained before he elected to restrain everything.

            Sansa watched as he carefully loosened then tightened each cuff around her wrists, asking after each whether it was too tight. Having Sansa rotate her wrists to make sure it didn't hurt.

            All the while Petyr caught the look in her face. “Were you expecting something else?” His thumb brushed just above the cuff, something Sansa told herself was mindless. But all of Petyr's actions – however small – had a reason behind them.

            “I was. To be honest I was expecting more of the tied down with ropes thing, Sir.”

            On and on his thumb brushed against her skin. On and on Petyr paid it no mind, his focus entirely upon her face. “Both are equally as enjoyable, for sub and Dom. But if you want, I can have you tied down to a bed, each arm and leg tied to a separate post, and fuck you over and over without once letting you come.”

          His smile was sweet. As if what he just said didn't send a terribly wicked onslaught of images through her mind. Or didn't send a shiver of expectation straight to her core.

            “Although,” Petyr began, lowering the hook with a long metal rod. If Sansa couldn't reach it, there would've been no way Petyr could. Unless he jumped, maybe: “If you prefer the more _extreme_ sort of bondage, I've an acquaintance from Yi Ti that I'm sure would be more than happy to bind up someone as beautiful as you, sweetling.”

            Sansa stared instead at the dark brown wrapped around her wrists. She could barely move her arms a few inches apart. She then remembered bands coloring people's wrists. She asked, if only to distract herself from the cold fear that began weaving it's way into her veins: “Sir, I was wondering, what were those bracelets you had people wearing at the party? Why the different colors?”

            Petyr continued to work as he spoke. “Do you remember what colors you said you had?”

            She remembered the lie but not what she said. “No. Sir.”

          “You said yours was purple and black,” he began, eyes flitting to her wrist as if remembering that night and that fleeting conversation that had led to _this_. “They represent who one is looking for, or if someone isn’t looking at all. For instance, purple and black means you would have been there interested in scening with a female Dom. Other combinations are more lax, like green which means you’re free to work with any gender – or multiple genders at once. And grey: you can switch between Dom and sub.”

          “I see.” It was so simple and so logical. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if Petyr designed that – and then realized, yes, he must have. A part of her wanted to ask Petyr what colors would be on his bracelet, but another part worried what his answer might be.

          Red – there was a color for people who weren’t available. Because they weren’t interested, or they were already tied to someone else.

          The silence stretched for a few heartbeats. Petyr placed a low stool for her to step onto. It was sturdy – she tried to wobble it over but the feet remained in place. Sansa’s arms were then hoisted until her toes barely found purchase on the stool. Petyr now stood eye-level with her breasts (which certainly was a _fortunate_ view for him).

            He asked her how the cuffs felt around her wrists, if they bit into her, or if her arms felt like they were being pulled apart. An infinite amount of questions, all while he tinkered with the pulley. Satisfied with the constraints and her responses, Petyr took a step back to admire Sansa. She had nowhere to look but at him – at the slow roving of his eyes across her. That constant _itch_ of his fingers drumming against his thighs. Craving to touch, to feel, despite having just bound her to the hook (and having just spanked her earlier). That ever-present ache of his own shadowing his pants.

            “What would you like, sweetling?”

            Sansa returned her gaze back to his face. He was letting her choose? But she didn't know much, aside from what he told her and the few Google searches. She'd meant to read some novels (most of which just the summary had her clenching legs together) – but there wasn't enough free time in a week to read more than two or three pages.

            But then she remembered what this truly was. Petyr was only teaching her. Teaching her the sorts of things she said during that first phone call. The sorts of things a sub would need learn to fool anyone that Sansa truly was this sort of girl. And not a girl disguising herself to get who she wanted.

            Sansa licked her lips. “What would be best for a… For someone new to this?”

            “A _beginner,_ ” he said, completing her first unfinished sentence, “would have remembered to thank their Dom for tying them up.”

            Cold fear flooded into her blood. Was she going to earn an actual punishment now? And how much worse would it be compared to the _punishment_ she begged from him? “Sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

            “You're welcome, sweetling.” And, as if knowing what thoughts collided inside her, added, “You won't be earning a punishment for this mishap. Today is all about learning the basics. But the next time, I _expect_ you to remember your manners.”

            He had told her about it, too. Countless times. Sansa wanted to punch herself for forgetting. Glad for the constraints to keep her from doing it – though that itch remained.

            “As for what I think you'll enjoy?” Petyr took lazy paces in front of her, exaggerated by running a hand down his jaw. Observing her like a connoisseur of fine art. Contemplating and mulling over something he surely already had planned for days. “A basic flogger, I think.”

            Sansa watched as he disappeared behind her, heard the rummaging of heavy things and metal things and gods-knew-what things. When he stopped back into view, Sansa couldn't help but stare with quiet fear at the _instrument_ lying in Petyr's hands.

            A flogger. Made of dark red leather it could have been dyed in dried blood. Could have dried blood soaked in the material, in the long, wide tendrils sprouting from one end. About six of them, each as wide as two fingers, and each a foot and a half long.

            It was beautifully made, Sansa had to admit. The hand held an intricate crossing pattern – likely to aid in delivering blows with perfect accuracy and force.

            Petyr's hands on her ass was one thing. This… this was a different beast altogether.

          “This is a basic tool for whipping subs with. The leather is softer, and the size of the strips leaves more of a thuddy impact. Similar to my hand, but not quite.”

          To prove a point, Petyr whipped it. It left a dull _crack_ in the air. Sansa jumped against her restraints. Thankful for them so she didn't fall off the stool. Terrified for them – that she was stuck there, hanging on tippy-toes until Petyr chose to release her.

            “I assure you it will feel just as good as the spanking before.” Another low _crack_ echoed into her ears. “Even better, maybe. Who would have thought someone like _you_ enjoyed being beaten so much... “

            Sansa felt another shiver run down her body at his words, at the leather – from hands bound above, tracing her skin until it pooled into pins at her feet. And everywhere in between was torn. Between the expectation of fear at the oncoming pain, and the oncoming pleasure. It had to be more a primal need to run away at the sound than anything else. And a learning need to cave in and want it. Even Sansa was surprised how her body _ached_ for the hurt.

            “You'll need to relax, sweetling.” Petyr wasn't staring at the display of emotions across her face, but he could feel the roiling storm ebbing off her. “If you don't shut your brain off, it won't feel good at all.”

            Every time he was able to answer the fear wrapped in her mind. To read every emotion and worry and ache of her.

            It unnerved her. Just a bit.

            But it excited her, too. That someone else was privy to the maelstrom of emotions she often kept bottled.

            Deep breath.

            Sansa closed her eyes, opened them. Unsure whether it would be better to _know_ when and where Petyr would strike.

            He chose for her: “Watch me, sweetling, as I lace your skin up as red as your ass.”

            The receding pain on the back of her throbbed in response. Sansa took another breath before saying, “Nowhere where it'll show, please, Sir.” She didn't want to have to explain to Arya or Myranda _what_ they were or _how_ she got them.

            “Of course, sweetling.” One final test of the flogger. “I'll strike across your breasts and stomach and thighs. Paint them the same as your ass.”

            Three breaths passed before Petyr flicked his arm and Sansa’s body involuntarily clenched in anticipation.

            They were soft strikes at first, almost _gentle_ , leaving dull thuds across her chest. They weren't concentrated like his hand had been. Weren't as rough or unexpected. Spread out, lashing all across her skin, a generous hurt blossoming into pinkish lines.

            Petyr alternated where he landed the flogger: breast, stomach, thighs, repeat. Errant leather strands would lick at her upper arms or side or catch a nipple – and once between her legs, hardly enough pain to have Sansa fight against her restraints. And hardly enough pain to have Sansa caving just a fraction towards him for _more_.

            Petyr saw it, though. The lean of her body against the straps, the quiet plead of her lips. Sansa's eyes were hooded, light entering but not much else. She shut off her brain to focus only on the feel. Somehow it was so easy to shut off the dam of thoughts and worry when Petyr was inflicting wickedness upon her.

            If only the blissful quiet lasted forever.

            And quiet it was – Sansa opened her eyes to see Petyr standing before her, flogger in hand, smile playing at lips. She hadn't felt him stop. Didn’t even know how many strikes he inflicted. Even now ghosts of the leather kissed at her skin.

            “More,” she whispered. And through the fog of pleasure: “Please. Sir.”

            He weighed the device in his hands. At some point he rolled the sleeves of his sweater above his elbows. They weren't powerful arms like Sansa usually preferred of the actors she swooned over. But they were the arms of the man that knew how her body responded beneath their machinations.

            And right now they were still.

            “Your body is so responsive, Sansa.” Petyr's words wended their way through the fog, lighting a way back to the ground of reality. “I almost didn't want to stop.”

            Her mouth felt dry. Had she been moaning and pleading the entire time? She couldn't remember. “Then don't stop.”

            His smile was devilish. “As much as I would like to sweetling, I can't today. I wouldn't want to overdo your first foray into this.” He then motioned to her body.

          Sansa saw red. So much red – he’d turned her into a canvas of bright, angry flesh.

            Petyr walked around Sansa – to judge how much he matched the first marks with the second. If he captured the perfect shade of painful bliss. If the strokes were even and spread. It must have been a good match, he took his time observing what he had done.

            Sansa felt the warm press of fingers trailing down her back, her arms and sides. “Next time I'll have you facing the other way as I flog you.” It might have been a reminder to himself more than a promise to her. But it still sent shivers down her.

            Then – those soft, wandering fingers traveled lower. To trace again the marks left by his hand. Lower, along the backs of her thighs. A fingernail ran along that particularly nasty mark, sending a lance of pain up her thigh.

            And up her thigh Petyr traveled. He trailed circles on her thighs, inches below her cunt. With every pass Sansa thought his fingers moved incrementally higher.

            “Would you like to come, sweetling?”

            He was too far to whisper it into her ear, but Sansa still shivered. At his touch. At his _kind_ consideration of her need that broke free of the fog and became a demanding thing pulsing throughout all of her.

            “Yes, Sir. _Please_.”

            A fraction higher. Sansa could feel the heat of his fingers where she wanted them, but not the touch that her body _needed_.

            He didn't say anything as he flicked a finger down the length of her cunt. Sansa jerked forward at the caress – and then pushed down and back into it. Petyr toyed with her outer lips as his mouth pressed biting kisses along her back. Each time a finger drew _so close_ to entering, he pulled back. Each time Sansa moaned – and she felt him smile in response.

            Frustration was building up as much as her need. She opened her mouth to plead, to _beg_ him, when finally Petyr ended his cruel tease and pushed a finger slowly in. Sansa’s plea was caught in her throat. Turned from a rasping whisper of _please_ into a breathy moan for _more._

            He worked with the same determined laziness as he had in the lingerie store. As if Sansa's need was hardly a thing of _importance._ But it was – Sansa could picture the strain of his cock long before she laid over his knee.

            Experience. Petyr must have had _years_ of experience to hold off for so long.

            Sansa, meanwhile, was straining against the cuffs, silently swearing at them. She wanted to plunge down onto his hand, to feel them deep within her. Wanted to tangle her fingers in his head and push his mouth to join in. Years of experience made Petyr able to stave off his own need – and made every knowing touch of his upon and inside her burn and ache.

            As much as she cursed them, Sansa was glad for the restraints. Glad that she didn't have to think about what to do with her body as someone explored and devoured it. She couldn't help but imagine that freedom were she tied up to one of the other devices. Or strapped down on a bed, completely and willingly at her Dom's mercy.

            Petyr worked faster now, his other hand wrapped around her to both hold her in place and to work at her clit with the same aching rhythm. It didn't matter what that rhythm was – it just wasn't _enough._

            Her toes curled in anticipation as that warm tingle began to spread through her limbs. As her hips buckled against him in no particular rhythm. So close, she was so close to coming.

            Cold washed between her legs. Against her thighs and back.

            “I'm going to lower you down now, sweetling.”

            The sounds of the mechanism filled her ears as Sansa fought against the frustrated pull tugging at her. The warmth was still there, cooling with every passing second. Slowly more and more of life came into view: the way the cuffs dug into her wrists as she had pulled her body against them. The numbness in her feet. The cold air tickling across her flushed and red skin. The wetness against her inner thigh.

            “Lower your arms slowly, sweetling. We need to get blood flowing back into them.”

            She did as he said, lowering herself to the flats of her feet. Her shoulders ached a bit, and her wrists would be a bit tender, but that was all. Petyr undid the cuffs one at a time, running his hands over her skin to loosen the circulation and bring back feeling.

            Sansa let him keep his hands working long after she could feel how warm they were, even against her own hot skin. Whatever lingering traces of her need had been wiped clean from his flesh. On pants or on tongue, she couldn’t say.

            “I…” She began, still not back in reality. The ache was shouting at her through that warm fog, pulling her back into its warm embrace.

            Petyr (at some point) had collected another jar of that salve, slowly working it into the worst of the marks now marring her front. Sansa looked and couldn't help but gasp. Line after line crossed her chest, her stomach. Some were angrier than others, those Petyr carefully applied the ointment. Sansa winced at each of them.

            And like she asked – none of them would show under her clothes. Even the few errant ones on her upper arms could be easily concealed.

            “I…” Sansa began again, trying to locate her brain that was still somewhere inside her. When she found it, Sansa then tried to figure out how best to voice her _concern_. “You said I could orgasm as much as I wanted tonight. Sir.”

            “Yes, you're right. But after all that I've done for _you_ , sweetling, I think it's time you _earned_ your orgasms first.” He winked at her. “I promise it’ll feel much better the longer you wait.

          Sansa wanted to disagree. She saw that horrible line of his mouth as he tilted it into a smile. Petyr then led her to that table, the window beyond it a mirror of obsidian. He held her hand aloft as a silent offer for her to lie down on it.

            Sansa paused just as she propped a knee atop it. Looked at Petyr as she asked, “Should I lie down on my stomach or my back?” Either way, her fresh marks would sting.

            Petyr thought on it before replying “Back.”

          She nodded and lay down. Petyr lowered it a bit before strapping her legs and arms. Her legs were spread, bent at the knees, ankles tied to the legs of the table. Petyr used a set of restraints that kept her wrists in the same line as her neck.

            As he began strapping her down his _promise_ from earlier played through her mind.

            “I've never given a blowjob before Sir.” The minute the worry left her lips Sansa pressed them tightly shut. Should she not have mentioned that? Petyr knew already; he asked that day she first called him. But now, with the act so close, would he be disappointed? Did that ever-present erection scurry away because of her innocence?

            “Good for you I'm already so close.” Sansa saw it as he finished her arms and moved to work on fastening her ankles. She'd wanted to ask if it _hurt_ , but decided not to. It must have felt like the frustration coiling around her. A demanding ache.

            But at least no one was ordering _him_ not to come.

            Petyr patted her ankles when he had tied her down, leaving his hands there a moment. He was kneeling, and from the way the table was shaped, there wasn't an inch of her he couldn't see.

            It was a few heartbeats before Petyr stood and rounded the device, the soft _clinking_ of his belt the only noise beneath the pounding ache pressing against Sansa's temples. Ice and fire – twin beasts running amok through her veins.

            _I just have to make him come,_ she assured herself. A nagging voice whispered how he would be _upset_ at her inexperience. He would conclude their lessons tonight because of it. That she would be so bad Petyr wouldn't even be able to stay hard.

            Doubt had Sansa pull against the restraints.

            Petyr's comforting words from earlier had Sansa pulling them back.

            Her head was angled slightly down, the lights thankfully not shining directly in her eyes. The position wasn't bad or uncomfortable, really. The tilt of her head might have lulled her to sleep (were she _that_ sort of tired). But ultimately it was designed so the angle was just enough for something _long_ and _hard_ to have easier access into her mouth.

            Sansa looked down from the ceiling towards him. Suddenly her mouth felt dry.

            He was indeed long and hard, hand lightly running over the length to ease whatever ache had been waiting – for hours, for _days._ Sansa, admittedly, hadn't seen many cocks in real life (or on the internet). But here, now, that spark of confidence of being able to do this without failing – to take him all in – began to wane.

            Petyr had kept his clothes on, slacks and undergarments tugged down his thighs enough to free himself. Sansa on one hand was thankful for that. That it was a sort of _barrier_ between them – physical, yes, and emotional too. There wasn't any use in her getting to attached to this Dom when he wouldn't be hers in the end.

            And on the other hand… “Is there some sort of rule where only _I'm_ the one getting naked all the time?”

            His smirk had a funny lilt when looking at it upside down. Petyr gripped her chin with just enough force to remind Sansa who was the one that determined whether or not she would be untied afterwards. “Perhaps if I feel you've _earned_ that sort of closeness, sweetling.”

            So – Petyr needed that barrier, too. Sansa wondered if it was so he would keep that long waiting primal urge at bay. That if he was completely naked he wouldn't bother with _just_ a blowjob.

            “Would you like me to teach you, sweetling, or would you prefer to learn by doing?”

            Maybe it just seemed _bigger_ since she was upside down. An unusual perspective, and all that. She rolled her ankles and wrists against the restraints, not to fight against them but to ground her. Like Petyr was doing with his cock. To give Sansa something to physically work on as she delved deep into her mind. Tried to remember _anything_ Myranda or her brothers or someone might have said about this.

            A pity she was always such a _good girl._

            “I'd like to try it, Sir, but let me know if I'm doing it right.” It came out more as question than an assertion of her willingness to try something she was sure to be poor at.

            Petyr had loosened his grip on her chin, running fingers along the length of her jaw. He'd swept away loose curls behind her ear, heavy waves of it reaching for the floor. Would he have preferred her on her back instead, so he could weave fingers through her hair and push his cock deeper?

            Next time.

            Sansa took another deep breath before moving her gaze down down down to the _demanding_ bit of flesh inches before her. Petyr stopped palming himself, the hand now hanging beside it. Fingers twitching digging into the bare strip of flesh of his hip.

            “Are you ready, sweetling?” Her eyes swept back up to him. The hand caressing her chin stopped, dropping down to rest beside her left hand. “You won't be able to _speak_ should you need to use your safe words. Instead, tap on my wrist three times if you need to stop. Do you understand?”

            It was really happening. The roar of voices telling her to stop was deafened by the pounding in her head. Unless she backed out now…

            “I'm ready, Sir.”

            Petyr nodded, allowing himself a breath before closing that short distance between them. His free hand held his manhood, directing it towards her lips. He left barely a centimeter between the tip and her mouth – allowing Sansa one final out if she really wasn't prepared to go through with it.

            Sansa arched her head towards him and lapped her tongue over the head. Petyr shuddered, the hand gripping his cock tightening. Sansa peered beyond to see his eyes intently focused on the shape of her mouth. To see him loosen a quiet sigh of relief.

            Gods she hoped she could make Petyr feel as good as he made her.

            She licked at the head again, swirling her tongue around the tip. It was an odd taste, sort of salty and something else. A heavy musk filled her nose and made her body involuntarily ache for it. Sansa worked slowly, just at the tip, just with enough pressure to earn breathy gasps from him when she pushed _just right_. A part of her wished she had her hands – so she could feel him, memorize the shape of it, trace fingers down the length and torment Petyr with the same relentless _tease_ he was so fond of subjecting her to. Next time – next time she'll properly explore him.

            Sansa lapped over the head one, two, three more times, relishing in the quiet moans escaping Petyr's often-reserved facade. Trailed her tongue down the length as far as she could, trailed back to the head and placed a kiss there. It was almost improper, the chastity of that kiss. She hadn’t kissed Petyr on the lips and yet here her lips were – defiling themselves with his cock.

          Finally Sansa pushed further against the restraints, Petyr helping in moving towards her, and took just the head into her mouth. Her teeth scraped at the sensitive flesh – Petyr hissed. An unspoken warning to be _careful_ not to bite him off. Sansa opened wider to keep her teeth clear away. Her jaw ached, but on she pushed her head slowly forward, taking one more inch before slipping back for air. A line of saliva connected her mouth with his cock – damning proof of innocent lips spoiled.

            “Careful where you keep your teeth,” Petyr finally warned. “If you can’t keep your jaw open there’s dams that’ll do it for you.” Sansa heard heavy breaths between his words. Whatever she was doing might not have been _perfect_ , but it was affecting him nonetheless.

            “I'll try, Sir.”

            “Do you think you can go deeper, sweetling?”

            Sansa saw the sheen of where her mouth had been wrapped. Not quite half the length. She felt a mix of fear and determination. “I think a bit further, Sir.”

            Petyr nodded. “I'm going fuck your mouth, sweetling. I'll be careful not to go in too deep. If it's too much to handle remember to tap on my wrist.”

            She had forgotten about his hand, its fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the table.

            Sansa nodded. “Understood, Sir.”

            Petyr stepped forward again, pressing the head just in front of her lips. Waiting. Eager – there was a quiet eagerness in Petyr, Sansa could feel it emanating in heat from him. Had felt his pulse beating on her tongue in the same heavy rhythm as the one beating throughout her.

            Sansa stared up into mossy green eyes as she opened her mouth and waited.

            It filled her slowly, inch by inch until Petyr paused where she had stopped before. Allowing Sansa to prepared for the rest of him. Petyr meanwhile moved his free hand from his cock to grip across her right wrist.

            “I'm going to start now, sweetling.”

            It was almost like being underwater – the unusual feeling of being upside down, of having to breathe through her nose. Almost, but also completely different.

            Petyr pulled out a bit before pushing back in. A pause. Then again: out, in, painfully slow that Sansa could tell he was reining back on the urge to completely sink himself in her. Each time his cock went in a fraction further, Petyr's hips buckled – _begging_ him to let go of any inhibitions and finally find that long-awaiting release inside her mouth.

            Sansa’s jaw was aching, opened wider than what might have been necessary to avoid her teeth and tongue. At first she didn't think it any worse than the few inches she tested on her own. It was almost easier not having to crane her neck to take him in. By the time Petyr was over halfway she could feel her body trying to push him out. Sansa fought against it, wanting to please him. Ignored the burn that was forming at the top of her throat, the tears prickling her eyes. He pushed and pulled several times, each a fraction deeper, until Sansa gagged.

            Petyr pulled out. “I told you to let me know if it was too much.” Each word was ragged.  

            “It's not too much yet, Sir.” Lies. Sansa arched her head forward, wanting to take him again, to prove she could do it. Prove it to him and to herself.

            Thankfully Petyr was too far in that same deep fog of need that he allowed her lips to wrap around the head.

            “If you want to prove yourself,” he began, tightening both of his hands over her wrists. But Petyr didn't finish the warning – he pushed his hips forward. The sudden jerk nearly had Sansa gagging around him. A painful burn shot through her throat.

            Petyr was tired to empty promises. Each new thrust was quicker than the one before, plunging himself deeper and deeper into her mouth. He'd long passed both points where she’d stopped. Long passed the point of a comfortable blowjob for her and into something her body was actively trying to push out. Petyr bent over her head, hands gripping painfully. Hips pumping and pumping. Sansa’s own moans were muffled against his flesh.

            It wasn't long before Sansa felt the steady thrusts become erratic. Felt the hot puffs of air against her neck. Every motion was short and deep and pushing the burn further down her throat.

            Until – with a shuddering groan into her neck – Petyr came inside her.

            It was too much, too sudden. Sansa choked on his cum, pulling her head back as far as she could to cough it out. Except most of Petyr’s cock was still in her mouth. All Sansa really did was give it room to fall around her chin, her cheeks and soak into her hair.

            “By the time I'm through with you,” he panted into her skin moments later, breaths hot and tickling. “You’ll learn how to give head and _swallow_ the entire load.”

            Sansa gasped for air. Already red and breathy from his relentless pumping, she had forgotten to breathe through her nose, and Sansa felt her cheeks flush shades darker. Thankfully Petyr couldn't see it. But he had to know – had to have felt the hitch in her pulse.

            He moved himself off her and out of her after several breaths, fixing his cock back into his underwear and hiking them up along with his pants. Aside from the flush where his cheek lay against her, the muss of his hair, and the lingering scent of need filling the room – Petyr hardly looked out of place.

            A finger trailed down her neck, her jaw, fingering through the disarray of red curls. He left for a moment and came back with a damp rag to clean up Sansa's face. She didn't want to know how she looked. With his seed and her tears ruining makeup – a mess would’ve been putting it lightly.

            “You did well, sweetling, for your first time. And your first time upside down.” The rag cleared stray need that was trickling towards her eyes.

            Even with the shame of messing up and not following his orders – even still Sansa beamed at his kindness.

            “Now,” Petyr began, folding the soiled rag and tossing it somewhere below. He loosened the straps around her wrists slowly, rubbing circulation back into them. Tracing where she had pulled against the leather. Where his hand had gripped hers. “I think you've deserved a few orgasms, don't you?”

            Sansa slowly stretched her arms as he had instructed her before. They felt like they were going to fall off. “Yes, Sir, I do.” Yes and no – there were things Sansa did that definitely deserved it. And there were things that wanted her to say instead: _No, Sir, I don't deserve any of it_.

            Regardless, her need ached. She told herself it was _necessary_ to come only because she had a midterm coming up and the frustration of not coming would've have plagued her mind all week. It would be _practical_ to let him.

            But…

            Petyr walked around the table, a hand lingering over her skin as he moved. He flicked a nipple, earning a squirm from Sansa. And in turn setting the aching need into something clawing for release. She ignored the voices telling her she didn’t deserve release and instead focused on what her body wanted. Craved.

            And Sansa wondered when her body would crave a _fuller_ release. When her body would need more than his wicked tongue and fingers.

            Sansa bit her lip. Asking for Petyr to _fuck her_ so soon… Perhaps if she had been _good_ he might have. But someone like her didn't deserve something that wonderful yet.

            So she stayed quiet. Petyr finally reached the opposite end of the table, hands resting on her thighs. He made no move to release the straps around her ankles, though. Instead, Petyr bent between her legs, and despite the shame and disappointment weaving it's way in her – Sansa couldn't help the sounds he was eliciting from her.

            Petyr dutifully applied the same attention to her cunt as he had the week before. She arched into him, wanting to spread her legs _further._ Her fingers and chest rolled forward, pressing and pulling and moaning for more. Sansa was already so on edge it didn't take long for her to come.

            All the built up pain and frustration – all of it – worked to set the soft light into something brighter, hotter. Her fingers ached in the grip on his hair. Sansa could still hear the echo of her scream as she came.

            She was high on the wave of bliss as Petyr continued to taste her, to feel her on his tongue and fingers. And the wicked splay of her legs that she couldn't control – Sansa was rolling into his touch again, tired and aching and craving it. Craving him and the horrible ways he made her writhe and moan. Petyr was the only one who’d ever touched her and tasted her and had her in such a depraved way. It didn't take too long for her to come again.

            Everything hurt in the best way.

            Through her ragged breathing, Sansa faintly heard Petyr's voice. “Would you like to come again, sweetling?” His own breath ragged, too.

            Yes? No? Honest to gods Sansa wasn't sure she would be able to _function_ if he continued to toy with her cunt. Or – if she asked, if Petyr was hard again. How long would Sansa last if Petyr finally relented and pumped himself in her as rough and raw as he had with her mouth…

            “Thank you, Sir. Thank you.” It was hard, dragging herself out of that warm fog. She must have thanked him a million times. “I'm okay Sir, thank you.”

            Petyr might have said something about the offer not standing next time, and Sansa vaguely remembered replying. Her eyes were so heavy…

            Sansa blinked.

            She felt the soft press of Petyr's sweater against her, smelled the mix of mint and musk and something else that was him.

            She'd dozed off. In that time Petyr had released the rest of the bonds, had propped her against him on the table. His hand was threading through her hair – likely a wild tangle.

            Part of her wanted to stay like this forever.

            Part of her remembered this wasn't going to last forever.

            Sansa hated it – that voice in her, whispering reality back into this simple warmth between them.

            She sighed as she pushed herself against Petyr, looking at him.

            A third part of her wanted to kiss him.

            “You did well today, Sansa.” She shot her eyes towards his. “There's much left for you to learn and practice. But i know you'll make any Dom proud with how willing and eager and responsive you are to all sorts of wicked things.”

            Sansa wanted to cry. It had to be because of the maelstrom of emotions she'd been subjected to all night.

          Petyr added: “Before long, every single Dom will be fighting to have just one hour with you.”

            She still didn't reply.

            He'd led her off the table, down the stairs and down the hall to where she'd discarded her things. In silence Sansa dressed, checking her purse had everything in it. She didn't check her phone, not wanting all of reality to come crashing down on her. Not yet.

            Petyr meanwhile had brought a small bag that was tied with a frilly lace bow. Sansa didn't have to ask what it was – her _gift_ from last week (was it really a week ago?). Sansa smiled as she took it from proffered fingers, thanking him. And from its touch alone, Sansa relived that evening in her mind.

            Her body was starting to regret _only_ coming twice.

            Still in silence, Petyr walked her to the door, opening it for her.

            She turned to him, her fingers toying with the strap of her purse, with the lace of the bow. “I promise I'll be better next time...Petyr. And I promise I'll wear your gifts.”

            All of them – the lingerie, the bruises, the confidence.

            What an unusual mix of presents for her birthday.

            Sansa looked at her watch. It was just past midnight. Had she really been here that long? Had she really begun her birthday writhing under the ministrations of such a wicked man?

            She focused on him now. A smile as she said, “Good night, Petyr. I'm looking forward to the next time.”

            He smiled at her, too, replying only after she had finally turned and made it halfway down the stairs. It was quiet, though – as of he didn't want her to hear. “Me too, sweetling.”

 


	6. lesson 5: pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [All I can say is that (1) I had no plan going into this chapter, and (2) it ended a lot differently than I thought it would…. Still good though. I hope you like it!!! :D (oh, and hugs and kisses to all of you!!)]

            “You look like you've just been freshly fucked.”

            Sansa spat out a mouthful of yogurt. Myranda managed to narrowly avoid it, her cackles ringing out loud enough for the students on the other end of the lecture hall to _shush_ her. But the dark-haired girl kept on laughing, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She had to have waited for maximum yogurt spittage.

            “Oh my _gods_ , Sans, you're so cute,” she said through laughs. Myranda helped wiped away the _mess_ that (she and) Sansa made all over her desk. And the back of the chair in front of her. And the floor. “But actually, though, where were you this weekend? Thought we were gonna take you out for your birthday but you never texted?”

            _That’s because I was too tired after being beaten and fucked on Saturday to remember…_

            Sansa instead said, “Studying for the midterm took longer than I thought.” She did her best not to strain her reach as she cleaned the mess. _Everything_ hurt. Arms, legs, core. There wasn't an inch of muscle that wasn't crying. And thank the gods it was a cold day in King’s Landing today. Sansa didn't have to try and explain away some of the angry lines that wrapped over her skin, or her aching soreness.

            “Studying on your birthday, girl?” Myranda clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You sure know how to party...”

            [1]Harry showed up then, weaving through legs and bags to get to them. “Hey guys, what's…” His gaze swept over the desk and chair. “Uh, why is there yogurt everywhere?”

            Myranda cut Sansa off: “Because our _innocent_ Sans finally had a bit of _fun_ this weekend.”

            “On my gods, Myr…” Sansa whispered at the same time as Harry asked, “Fun?”

            The grin was practically devilish. “She finally got herself fucked.”

            “ _Myranda_.” There was ice in Sansa's voice. A steely gaze to _stop it_. Myranda, at least, had clamped a hand over her mouth – but beneath it, she was cackling.

            Harry looked between the two of them, outright confusion lining his face. He stared longest at Sansa, sweeping quickly over her with furrowed brows.

            As if he was trying to fathom it: Sansa Stark, sweet and pure and perfect in every way. Debasing herself before marriage by allowing some stranger to fuck her when she should have been studying. The thought wasn't computing in Harry’s mind. Brain broken at the mere thought of it.

            Good.

            Sansa wasn't _ashamed_ of what she did (at least, the fluttering in her stomach didn't feel like shame). But she was _certain_ no one would look at her the same if they knew. About how much she looked forward to the weekends now. About how much of what Petyr had done (and planned to do) had gotten her off. About how _impure_ her thoughts – and lips – were.

            About the sort of person Sansa was giving herself up to.

            What would they think if they knew her endgame? That all of this, ultimately, was to woo over Joffrey. Myranda didn't like his eyes (they were such a beautiful shade of green). Mya wanted to know whether or not he treated animals kindly. Harry just scoffed at his facebook photo.

            But… they knew Joffrey as much as they knew Sansa right now.

            She finished cleaning away her yogurt, stuffing the napkin in the container, not bothering to finish the rest of it. Class was going to start, anyways, and the professor (despite it being a gods-damn eight in the morning class) disliked it when students ate. It _distracted_ them from learning.

            And right now, Sansa truly needed to figure out how these blasted equations worked. She was too sore yesterday to find the energy to do her chores in the morning. She only got out of bed to apply more of that salve. And she only got out of her room (wearing sweatpants and a jacket) when she heard Arya slam the front door closed. Her sister wondered how much being in the South changed her.

            When the portly old man walked in, Myranda leaned in to whisper _Sorry._ Sansa only grunted her acknowledgement, wholly invested in scratching the day’s date and lecture title in her notebook.

            But that investment couldn't block out Myranda's quiet sniggering.

            Or – when Sansa glance over – the look of confusion Harry kept directed at her.

            Sansa ignored them for the whole lecture.

            They didn't know _anything_.

* * *

            Sansa hadn't the strength earlier to the try out Petyr's third gift because of how _thorough_ he had been with his second. The marks had mostly disappeared by Tuesday, thanks to that magical salve he loaned her. It helped, too, when Arya came home with Gendry in tow, the short girl _complaining_ that she was okay. Gendry had given up fighting with Arya and asked Sansa for help. Which she thought to be just as fruitless when it came to Arya.

            They had been walking across the rocks at Blackwater Bay, entirely ignoring the plethora of signs telling tourists to _stay off the rocks._ Especially when it was raining.

            Arya didn't hide the wince as she lay down, claiming that _Gendry was being a big baby_.

            Minutes passed before they managed to convince Arya to give _proof_ that she was unharmed. So when Arya caved in and showed her right arm, Gendry merely sighed with a “You fell on your _left_ arm, Horseface.”

            Arya called him a snitch as Sansa examined the fresh scratches and bruises. A wholly different pattern than the one that had littered her skin on her birthday. Her sister continued to insult Gendry as Sansa applied the salve.

            The next evening Arya asked, “Why do you even _have_ something like that, Sans?”

            Sansa didn't falter as she replied, “‘Cause I figured you'd get into stuff like that. Won’t be the last time, I bet.”

            Thankfully there'd been enough of that wild _stuff_ in their childhood that Arya only asked for another coat.

            By the time the weekend rolled around, Sansa didn't have any _proof_ of what she had endured. Of what she _allowed_ Petyr to do to her. There was the phantom pain of the marks. The sure ghosting of his hands or the leather licking her skin.

            She'd have thought they would make the perfect accessory for the lingerie.

            There were two, both made of silk and lace. The _finest_ silk and lace – Sansa almost felt guilty using them. One was stark white, the purest white fabric that caught the light like a polished pearl. The other the deepest black, sucking every ounce of light into it. They wrapped around her chest and hips perfectly.

            Sansa deigned to go with the white one tonight. To ask ( _ever so sweetly_ ) if Petyr could turn her skin a beautiful shade of _impure_ red to contrast. And to have them last till next time they met.

            She wasn't nearly as nervous as she pulled into The Mockingbird that Saturday. It wasn't _comforting_ yet, knowing that whatever awaited her was completely at Petyr’s whims. Not once had he let her know beforehand what the lesson would entail. But there was almost a sense of ease staring up at the skyward tower. A sense of being able to take off her mask and be herself.

            It wasn't Chataya who led Sansa inside today, but an equally beautiful man who moved as smoothly as Chataya did. Who kept his head poised down, soft dark locks reaching his chin. He wore only a simple undergarment that did nothing to hide what was beneath. Light muscles and smooth skin caught on the filtered light. Everyone who worked for Petyr was absolutely stunning and perfectly submissive (or Dominant, though Sansa wondered if Petyr would _let her_ interact with them. He wasn't hers, she reminded herself – if she asked for lessons with another Dom, would Petyr relent?)

            “Thank you,” Sansa said as the man brought her to the same room as last week. He nodded his approval. She hadn't had time to ask him his name or if Petyr would be down shortly. The man was already gone.

            Sansa checked her phone as she sat. Sat on that very place where she had _begged_ for punishment and Petyr had obliged. It was hard not to remember the feeling of it.

            _Your lesson will start at seven tonight._

            Petyr had texted her late, at nearly four thirty, giving her only time enough to drive here with three minutes to spare. She couldn't help but fidget and pace in her bedroom as she waited for that text. Had he not wanted to deal with her again? After how manic she'd been. How imperfect she'd proven to be.

            Still – Petyr would have waved them away. Or so she sometimes liked to believe. When her mind didn’t weave in the constant ideas that he was merely tolerating her. Waiting out the weeks until he could be rid of her.

            The only thing she thought she did poorly was giving him head. Well, he _came_ , that was her goal. It was far from pretty. It was far from the slow, cautious steps Petyr had taken her through before. Impatient – he had grown impatient at Sansa _insisting_ she could do everything perfect the first time. A lesson in its own right. But Sansa honestly thought she was going to choke on his cock or his come. That ache was the last one to fade away – a clawing burn in her throat. The worse thought was that her family and friends would know: the sort of things she did when she wasn't being demure and quiet.

            Petyr didn't mind her being unquiet. At least he never tried to quell her pleas and moans. Sansa didn't think she _could_ be quiet, not under his wicked ministrations.

            Her phone rang. An unknown number, location blocked. Sansa hovered over the answer button, tempted to assume it was junk. Except it could also be someone important.

            “Hello?”

            Silence.

            No, not silence. There _was_ someone there. Quiet breaths muffled, as if someone had their hand over the receiver. And faintly in the background – the sound of someone else. Speaking words Sansa couldn’t make out.

            She hung up just as the person began to speak.

            Sansa waited for them to call again. If it was important, they would. Only they didn’t.

            After a few minutes of fidgeting with the cuffs of her coat, Sansa decided to be proactive about her learning. She disrobed down to the silky undergarments, removing her short heels, too. Part of the floor was carpeted, but Sansa chose to use the wood.

            With as much grace as she practiced at during the week (a thing done in the privacy of her own bedroom, and with sores and aches that only made it sometimes impossible), Sansa knelt and waited for Petyr.

            She gave herself view through the window. Gave herself something to focus on rather than the growing numbness in her fee. Or the rising panic that because she was doing something Petyr didn't ask her to she’d be punished. And a _true_ punishment wouldn't feel nearly as good as the one she coerced.

            Time passed. It was already dark when she pulled up into Harrenhal. There wasn't anything to see through the window save for the reflection of the room. Of herself. Of the doorway where Petyr had come through last week. At least she wouldn't be caught unawares of him _looking._

            The Mockingbird wasn’t quiet. Sansa tried to listen out for him, or the other workers. But the amount of cars that had been out front, and the _formality_ that the man had opened the door for her… There must be another _party_ tonight. Of which Sansa wasn't sure she was invited. Or, maybe her less was Petyr leaving her kneeling here all night for everyone to look at (and use).

            “Apologies for how late it is, sweetling.” Sansa saw his reflection – a black thing with only face illuminated. And a small glint at his throat.

            She didn't turn her face. “It's okay, Sir.”

            “And an apology for the late message. There's an event much later tonight, I wasn't sure if I’d have the time to _teach_ you.”

            He had been toying with the buttons at his wrists when he walked in. And now finished with that… Sansa heard a faint gasp as Petyr beheld her. Wished she could see clearer his reflection. To see where and how his eyes trailed across her body. The thought alone – that she could render him breathless, wordless, frozen – sent a shiver of need through her.

            He cleared his throat, feet quiet as he approached. “The tailors have great taste, wouldn't you agree?” Petyr was behind her now, the heat of him soaking into her back.

            She opened her mouth to reply. And then – a finger, two, tracing along the bones and muscles of her back. Down the line where the straps held. The silk hugging her sides. He let wandering fingers travel along the demarcation line between flesh and fabric, stopping at her ribs. Thumbs brushed against silk, _beneath_ silk. So close and yet a chasm remained.

            Petyr's voice was inches from her ear. “I haven't given _proper_ attention to your breasts, sweetling. How do you think I should remedy that, hmm?”

            It was almost a purr. A predatory thing. He didn't want her opinion, not necessarily. Just her _permission_ to do horrible things to her until she cried out in pain and pleasure.

            “Whatever Sir wants.”

            He dug his thumb an inch higher beneath the bra, as if in reward. Sansa's breath hitched. “Good choice, sweetling. And thank you for already kneeling. And for wearing my _gift._ I'll expect you to wait for me in that position every time we'll meet.”

            “Yes, Sir, of course.”

            “And unless you have a new set of undergarments to _display_ , I expect you to be naked.”

            She blushed. Sansa hadn't felt safe enough to practice naked at home, or without _some_ bit of clothing. Somehow she always knew it would come to this – and a part of her didn't want to accept it.

            She started the conversation away, even as his fingers steered painfully slow across her breasts. “Will this be a short lesson, Sir? Since the party…”

            Petyr removed his hands, and Sansa feared she had said something wrong. Ice filled her veins. She shouldn't have spoken freely, of course. She should have been quiet. Stupid stupid _stupid_.

            Except Petyr moved to undo her bra, one hook at a time. As agonizing for him as it was for her.

            He didn't let the material fall away down her arms. Didn't want to _rush_ this, Sansa thought. Even if their time was limited today. Petyr’s hands clasped over her shoulders, thumbs pushing and pulling against the straps. Debating whether to undress her, or to have Sansa do it. Savoring the act itself. Of peeling away the layers Sansa covered herself with until there wasn't anything she could hide behind.

            “Unfortunately yes,” Petyr began, answering her question that Sansa had forgotten about. All she could focus on was the press of his warm skin against hers. “Tonight will be a short lesson. Perhaps I should have asked whether you were okay with driving that far for it?”

            Sansa bit her lip. She would've driven the distance even if she had known. Whether the lesson was only thirty minutes or started at midnight – the lessons, the feel of Petyr beside her and inside her – all of _this_ had become a thing Sansa was having a hard time living without.

            “No, Sir, it's fine. Although I wished you had messaged earlier.”

            “So do I. But running a morally-upstanding house like this requires a lot of my attention.”

            Sansa laughed.

            Petyr finally hooked fingers under the straps and tugged – _slowly –_ down her arms. Fingertips trailer along her skin, lines of fire shooting up and down into her core. It was so soft and gentle Sansa nearly forgot what _other_ things those fingers had done to her. Would do.

            “Lift your hands, sweetling.”

            Sansa obeyed, allowing him to fully rid her of the bra. Petyr was kind enough to fold it and lay it atop the pile of the rest of her clothes. It took hardly a breath before Petyr was back, trailing up her arms the same path they had taken down. But now without impediment; without a mission other than to hear the quiet breaths Sansa was releasing faster and faster.

            He lightly brushed the sides of her breasts before splaying fingers across her back. She felt the pads of Petyr’s fingers trace seemingly random lines between points of her skin: neck and shoulders and the small of her back. Mapping her skin, memorizing every rise and fall.

            As softly as he moved, he was gone. A whisper in her ear: “Lie down on the table, sweetling.”

            Sansa managed with a decent amount of grace to rise without faltering (from strain or from the quickening of her heart). There weren't knickknacks on the tables or walls like would be in a _decent_ establishment. Sansa couldn’t help but think it looked too ordinary. But lying beside the table – where Sansa would have noticed them if they where there when she was escorted in – were a variety of tools that she couldn't quite recognize. Only one seemed outright _medieval_.

            Petyr's warning echoed in her mind. She couldn't help but push her chest inward at what some of the tools might do to her.

            “Relax, sweetling.” She hadn't even approached the table yet, so Petyr was standing beside her. She didn't have the luxury of the window to peer what night be shadowing across his face. “I promise you'll thoroughly _enjoy_ what I'm about to do to you.”

            Words meant to calm...but they didn't quite hit their mark.

            “Please be gentle, Sir,” Sansa whispered before moving to lie back-down on the wood. It chilled skin that Petyr had just warmed.

            She saw a tug of a smirk at her reply. An unsaid retort of ‘ _you weren't asking me to be gentle last week’_.

            Which, she thought, might have been why Petyr chose to teach her _this._

            The table was an actual table, not like the thing she was on before. Not necessarily a step towards mastering being submissive. Perhaps Petyr didn't want to waste the time going upstairs with what little time he had to teach. That, or he entirely meant for the roughness digging into her soft skin.

            And this time, Sansa wasn't entirely naked. A thought that was almost _more_ scandalous.

            “Do you play with your breasts when you masturbate, sweetling? Or, when you used to?”

            A gentle reminder who was in charge. “Sometimes, Sir, but nothing...extreme.”

            He stood at her feet. Sansa didn't look at him, finding the swirls of the ceiling vastly more interesting. “What do you mean by ‘extreme’?”

            Sansa licked her lips. She saw Chataya presenting her breasts to Petyr, pinching at her nipples until they had to have hurt the entire night. _That_ was what Sansa considered overboard extreme. _That_ to Petyr must be child's play.

            “I suppose anything, Sir. Anything more than someone rubbing them or licking them?

            Another reminder how unknown this entire world was to her.

            “So you've never pinched them or thought about it?”

            “No, sir, I haven't.”

            “You mean, _not until today_ you haven't.”

            She pressed fingertips into the word. “Yes, Sir, I haven't had my nipples pinched until today.”

            “Would you allow me the honor of being your first, then?”

            Sansa nearly shot herself off the table. It was an effort of self restraint to keep every limb and muscle in place. To hide the surge of her heart.

            He didn't mean to be the first for _that_. He meant only to be the first to toy with her breasts. To be the first to touch her and taste her and show her the ways her body could find pleasure in unexpected ways.

            He didn't mean...that.

            Did he?

            Did _she_ mean for it?

            No. Yes.

            She wasn't sure.

            “Of course, Sir.”

            “Thank you.” Petyr stepped around and sat upon the edge, his clothed thigh brushing against her arm. This table was much shorter than the one before, not adjustable and not capable of binding her. Sansa wondered if that was a test – if he would judge her unconscious reactions and expect her to remain still as he did gods-knew-what.

            A finger trailed up her arm, across a shoulder, down to circle her right breast. The touch almost soothed the oncoming fear and pain. Almost.

            “I'll start by pinching each nipple with my fingers. I'll be soft at first and then increase the pressure. Do you understand.”

            He'd went on with his ministration the whole time. Sansa was focused too much on it and not on his words that her response was delayed. “Yes, Sir.”

            “And if the pain is so excruciating tonight that you _absolutely_ cannot take it, I need you to use your safe words. Do you want to talk through anything, or are you ready?”

            Sansa was honest to gods skeptical. But, she hadn’t known being spanked or whipped felt that _good_ either.

            She turned from the ceiling for a second to answer, “I'm ready, Sir,” before looking upwards again. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she didn't know what was coming.

            The finger circled around and around before climbing her breast to rub at her nipple. It had been mostly hard before (a slight softness at the fear of what was to happen). Petyr worked at it until Sansa’s breathing quickened and she pushed her breast into the motion.

            He gripped the tip between thumb and finger, applying a soft pressure. It was almost as demanding as when he lapped at her breasts in the store with his tongue. A different sort of demand than the slap of fingers or leather.

            Sansa was thinking that it wasn't nearly as bad as she thought until he worked at her other breast. A slight coldness filled her, fighting against the warmth at his featherlight touch. It wasn't long before Petyr captured the other nipple in the same hold as the first.

            Then he began pinching harder, a gradual thing that had her pushing her back into the wood and pushing her chest into his hands. She shied from the pain. Arched into it. Sansa closed her eyes.

            Petyr didn't speak, didn't breath as Sansa focused on the rising pressure at her nipples. She clutched the edge of the table, knuckles likely white. Bit her lip.

            Would it help or hinder if she moaned? Would he stop because he proved that this actually did feel good? Or would he keep going until the pain became something truly unbearable?

            His unused fingers toyed at the sides of her breasts as his grip entered that confusing territory between bearable and painful. Trying to distract her, maybe. A wicked voice wondered if he distracted her in _other_ ways, that she might endure the pain so long she didn't register it anymore.

            But the soft brushing of fingers didn't ease the grip on her nipples so much as highlight how much it fucking hurt.

            Sansa’s bottom lip hurt. She opened her mouth to _halt_ -

            “I think that's enough, sweetling. I'm going to slowly release you now.”

            As if he could read when her body teetered toward outright pain. True to his word Petyr gradually let up on the pressure. When it was light enough he released her right nipple and caught it in his mouth. Lapping at the painfully hard tip, pulling at it with lips and teeth.

            Sansa moaned, arched into his mouth.

            She felt Petyr smile against her skin as he moved to apply the same _care_ to the other.

            When he was done – lips and teeth and fingers removed, only cold remaining – Sansa opened her eyes. Looked at Petyr, who was leaning back on a hand, the thumb brushing lightly against her thigh. He smiled at her with...pride?

            “Good job, sweetling.” Sansa felt a different warmth spread through her chest. “You handled the pain a lot better than I thought. I am curious to see what else your breasts can handle.”

            Voice trailed off. His thumb continued its slow strokes, mindless things.

            Sansa wasn't sure how much more she _could_ take. It was a concentrated pain unlike the pain she had last week.

            “Can I…” she began, licking her lips. “Can I see what else you brought first?”

            He nodded, bending to collect the items, laying them on his thighs.

            “This is the least painful one,” Petyr began. He held what looked like a cross between tweezers and clothespins. He squeezed them open and close. “They’re pretty similar to fingers, allowing a Dom to free his own for other sorts of torture.”

            Okay, that wasn't too bad.

            “They're also popular to clip onto the lips of a sub’s cunt.”

            Sansa felt her own contract at the thought.

            Petyr didn't outwardly acknowledge the terror in Sansa as he lifted up the second _toy_. “This would be the next step of the ones I've brought.” There was a central ring to which thin chains were connected. Each had a small clamp, the ends tipped with rubber. It was the fact that there were _three_ of them that caught Sansa off-guard. One for each breast, and the other…

            Petyr smiled as he saw where her gaze froze. “Yes, sweetling, the third one’s for your clit.”

            “I see…” was all she said in response. All she could manage to sayas she imagined the sharp pain on her nipples down there.

            “And this is the last one for tonight.” He lifted only one finger to show off this one. Like the previous, there was a thin chain, shorter, and thankfully there were only two bits to this device. They were oddly shaped, sort of like a flat mechanical teardrop. Mechanical might not have been the best word, but Sansa wasn't sure _how_ to describe them. Or how they would feel.

            “These are called clover clamps. Though they are definitely a _terrible_ thing, despite its name. The clamps at first will be painful as all hells. And this chain,” he tugged at it, “will increase the pressure. The more you fight against it, the more it will hurt.”

            Sansa couldn't help but stare at the chain that linked them. Wondered how Petyr could use that – to help bring on her orgasm (so he said), or to punish her for not doing what she was told.

            Wondered if Petyr had them on last week, would he tug whenever Sansa licked or bit at his cock the wrong way?

            She couldn’t help push her chest away at the sight.

            “I didn't bring anything _outrageously_ painful for you today. Gods know there are toys far, far worse than these. I think, since you’re new to this sort of play, we’ll use either the first two clamps.”

            Thank the gods for that.

            She stared at them a long moment. The pain in her nipples more a numb thing now. At least, until Petyr continued his _lesson_. “Does Joffrey like this sort of thing?”

            Sansa wasn't looking at Petyr, but...she thought she felt him stiffen. Felt the heat emanating off him cool a fraction. A small lapse in the ministrations of his thumb.

            Petyr didn't let it show on his words. “Yes. He's rather fond of all sorts of play that involves inflicting pain on a sub.”

            Was that supposed to be a warning? Or just an objective admission of what Sansa was to expect if she continued? A lot of pain.

            In that case, Sansa needed to practice.

            “I think–” She stopped herself. Started over. “I would like it if you use the second one on my nipples, Sir.”

            The coldness in him was washed away with her words. Sansa sighed – glad for it.

            “Of course, sweetling.”

            Petyr set aside the rest of them. No sign that this would be the _only_ device he would subject Sansa to tonight.

            “And I'm assuming you forgot to say, ‘use them on my nipples _and_ my clit’, right sweetling?”

            Maybe she should have opted for the clothespins.

            Petyr lay the cold metal across her stomach, lining up the chains to where they would be unmercifully attached. Set the clamps in the valley between her breasts, the third just beneath her belly button. They tickled as he went.

            But went no further.

            Waiting. Looking at Sansa, fingering the ring that connected all three chains.

            She had to either _freely allow_ that torture on her cunt, or she'd have to back out and admit she wasn't prepared. Return to an easier device. Or return to King’s Landing with nothing else.

            Petyr continued to spin the ring one way, the other. Seeming to not care at all how long she took. As if there wasn't a huge party that he had to host and prepare final checks for.

            The longer Sansa took, the less time she'd have for her lesson.

            A heavy, resigned breath. “Please, Sir.” What on earth was she getting herself into? “Please use that _terrible_ thing on my nipples. And my clit.”

            A flush of terror washed through her. An ice cold wave flooding inside her as she watched Petyr's grin twist into a vile thing built from the deepest levels of wickedness.

            Or, the deepest levels she knew so far.

            “Certainly, sweetling.” Fingers trailed to the underside of a breast. “I promise it's far more enjoyable once you're used to the sensation.”

            Which meant getting used to it would be a date worse than death.

            He lifted the first clamp, squeezing it open and close a few times. He left the other hand firmly placed on her stomach. “But if anything is too much, _please_ use your safe words. I don't want to _truly_ harm you, Sansa.”

            Sadness? She thought she detected almost a hint of it in her name. But more than that – that _impatience_ he reigned back last week.

            Petyr dragged the rubber tip up her breast, tapping again at her nipple. Sansa clutched tightly onto the edge of the table, the wood creaking in response. With fingers first, he played with her nipple, _teasing_ it with rubs and tugs meant only to warm up. Slowly increasing the pressure to what he subjected her to earlier.

            And finally-

            “Holy _fuck._ ”

            Sansa's body tried to rise off the table, to run away from the excruciating pain flooding her breast. Petyr kept his free hand against her chest, pushing her down. Knowing how much it would fucking hurt.

            “Breathe, sweetling. You need to relax and get accustomed to the pain.”

            She wanted to scoff that _he_ wasn't being subjected to _this_. Sansa couldn't do anything with her mouth except bite down on her lip. Grip the table her fingers threatened to break. Push her feet into the wood.

            This was so much worse than his fingers or teeth. And these weren't even the _worst_ ones.

            “Breathe.”

            Sansa did.

            She nearly drew blood from her lip, Sansa could feel the chasm she was digging at with her teeth threaten to.

            Again Petyr asked her to breathe. In. Out.

            And over time – the pain subsided. Turned away from a sharp, unbearable thing, into something duller. Unless her nipple had gone completely numb from it.

            Several more breaths passed. Her grip on her lip and on the table loosened. Sansa opened her eyes. The corners were lined with tears.

            “Not nearly so bad, is it?”

            Sansa wanted to flip him off.

            Instead she said, “It hurt a lot more than I thought.”

            Petyr nodded. “Yes. But all sorts of pain – clamps or whipping or caning – all of it in the end heightens the levels of pleasure that you'll earn. It's a wicked thing, yes, but if you can endure it the reward will be mind-blowing.”

            Sansa better have _earned_ some amazing orgasms from this.

            “You have,” Petyr said, reading her thoughts. He ran fingers around her bound breast, tapping the clamp slightly. Sansa hissed. “If you're ready, we can begin on the other.”

            She took a few breaths. Closed her eyes. Tried to quiet the whisper in her mind. It was so loud, so demanding, an aching thing pounding against her skull. Her heart hurt.

            “What if I can't, Sir?”

            She hadn’t realized she spoke them aloud until she felt a brief pause in Petyr’s fingers. The words were almost foreign to her. So rarely Sansa revealed her inability in front of people. So rarely Sansa felt (what was this, exactly?) comfortable around someone to lower her mask.

            It was terrifying.

            “Sansa.” Petyr didn't continue. Waited until she brought her full attention upon him. His voice came through the maelstrom in her head. “I wouldn't do this to you if I didn't think you could handle the pain.”

            Sansa bit her lip. Stared into grey-green eyes that never wavered even as she flicked to the ceiling.

            He was _lying_ , of course. Sansa knew she couldn’t do this. Knew that if Joffrey hadn’t been so interested in this sort of thing, she would have hightailed it out of here the moment Petyr showed her the first clamp.

            Maybe if she whispered Petyr’s lie to herself enough, it would become true.

            “Okay. I'm ready, Sir.”

            The second nipple was just as bad. She gasped _holy fuck_ at least as loud as the first. She knew what to expect, and Sansa wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

            Her fingers ached in their grip as the pain slowly subsided into that pressing numbness. Overall, Sansa wouldn't have minded it if the clamps didn't hurt so gods-damned much at first. Or – if she had something to _distract_ herself from the pain.

            Petyr tugged lightly on the ring connecting the chains. Sansa yelped, her body following the movement to minimize the pain. She wanted to curse him out to the point Arya would have been in shock. Instead she whimpered, “Thank you, Sir.”

            For the pain, or for his lie that beat back against her own mind. Sansa wasn't sure.

            “You're welcome, sweetling.” He kept his finger toying with the ring. Not pulling on it, just _there_. A silent reminder that he held the power over whether she would leave truly enjoying the blasted clamps or not.

            “Ask me to clamp your clit.”

            Sansa didn't look at first – didn't want to see the darkness clouding soft eyes. Darkness twisting his lips at whatever wicked thoughts existed permanently within his own mind.

            “Please be honest with me, Sir,” she began, staring at a thin line running down the length of the ceiling. She felt the weight of Petyr's attention on her. Felt him press just a bit into her stomach as if to say _look at me._ She did. “How much is it going to hurt?”

            Because if the state of her nipples was any indication… No amount of sweet words could convince Sansa to _ask_ for that sort of thing between her legs.

            Petyr twirled the ring languidly. It briefly tugged at the clamps – and the gentleness was almost _not enough._

            “Honestly, sweetling, it'll hurt like hell at first, just like your nipples. Worse. A lot worse.”

            Which wasn't at all what she wanted to hear. If Petyr had lied (again) and Sansa realized later, at least she would have had the false courage to ask. But now, she needed something else for motivation.

            Sansa focused on the feel of his fingers as she said, _demanded_ : “Distract me, Sir. Please. And… Please, clamp my clit.”

            For the briefest moment, his fingers paused their movement. Resumed again, as his mouth twisted. “Of course, sweetling. But only because you asked.”

            She bit back a retort. No point arguing – he could take it as _disobedience_ and proof that he needn't be gentle with her.

            Fingers moved across her. Slowly. They only had a few minutes left, and Petyr wanted to spend most of them drawing out Sansa's _agony_. Agony of the oncoming pain that she asked for. Agony for the orgasm (or two) that she had to have _earned_ for undergoing his torture. Agony at how slowly he trailed down and up and across her stomach.

            He left kisses. Between her breasts, down her stomach, atop her hips. Hands trailed down her sides. Sansa lifted her body into him. A silent ask for _more_.

            Petyr grabbed the third chain between his teeth and pulled. Sansa moaned – at the sharpness shooting into her breasts, at the warm caresses Petyr left wherever his fingers ran over her skin.

            He lowered her underwear, not removing them entirely. Kept them hitched behind her knees – to keep her from escape, perhaps.

            Petyr was between her legs finally, nipping at the skin just beside where she needed him. Sansa was surprisingly _ready,_ despite how much of the evening she spent in pain rather than bliss. But she was thankful for it – thankful that Petyr didn't spend nearly as long playing with the flesh around her cunt before running the tip of his tongue down the length of it.

            Sansa arched her back. Her cry of pleasure was cut short, transformed into an unknown thing. Petyr had held onto the third chain with a hand – and any excess movement tugged at her nipples. And any excess pain made Sansa push her hips into his mouth.

            He lapped over her lower lips, bit at them, devoured them like he never tasted her before. Or that he had, and Petyr couldn't ever get enough. Almost as if he was constantly _hungry_ for the taste of her. Aching for her, as much she him.

            Sansa glanced between her legs to see light bouncing off of his dark curls. A dark mass of wickedness tasting her, enjoying her. Petyr ran his tongue down to up, a single long stroke that had his head lifted from its preferred position. Their eyes met. Petyr's were as dark as his hair, darker. They smiled as his mouth did, lips glinting with her need.

            He was about to say something then thought better of it. Sansa saw the idea of _show not tell_ pass his eyes.

            Petyr adjusted his grip, pressing her legs further apart. The chain was in his right hand, the metal links taut. A threat that any _excessive_ movement by either of them would have Sansa writhing.

            He finally lowered his head again. This time he dedicated his mouth to her clit. Swirling the nub with his tongue. Sucking on it. Nipping at it gently with teeth. And again, and again – lavishing all of his attention to making Sansa squirm and moan.

            Except (more than that) Petyr was _preparing_ her. Each pass grew more and more insistent. Pressed harder with his tongue. Suckled until Sansa felt like her release was just there. Bit to remind her that she hadn't _quite_ earned it yet. Not until that horrible thing was clamped over her clit.

            She thought he might announce when he would do it. When that _thing_ would make contact

            Except he didn't.

            Sansa’s mouth let loose an unending string of curses. Every one different than the last. Every one she learned from her siblings or Myranda.

            The pain was definitely worse. _So much_ fucking worse.

            The tears that had been threatening to fall finally did. Slithering down the side of her face as she thrashed her head side to side. Gnashed her teeth. Gripped onto the edge of the table with so much force it was a surprise wood and bone didn’t shatter beneath it. Her entire body was screaming _run run run_ away from the pain. She tried and tried and tried, and couldn’t find escape.

            _Gods_ this was so much fucking worse than the clamps on her nipples. Or the whippings she endured. Sansa would much rather be whipped and spanked as true punishment than endure the horrible grip of lifeless rubber against the most sensitive part of her body.

            She wanted to rip it off. To rip her skin off, and peel away her muscles and veins and everything else underneath.

            But she couldn’t. So Sansa continued to writhe, to cry and (only in her mind) beg for it to end.

            And that tormenting pain – gone.

            Sansa thought she might have gone completely numb. Might have actually passed out or died from the shock.

            Save for a new feeling between her legs. Moving and moving and moving in a rhythm that was just as rough.

            Except warmer. Harder.

            Flesh pressed against the sides of her face, but Sansa didn’t open her eyes. There was a voice, too, whispering or shouting words that she couldn’t hear over the din in her own mind. She filled them in herself: _you’re pathetic._

_You honestly couldn’t take it, so why do you keep lying to everyone?_

_Just stop._

            She couldn’t stop the tears. Didn’t think she could.

            Except that motion – rough and rocking and _soothing_ – worked its way through her body, up her chest, and knocked into her mind.

            Sansa didn’t have to open her eyes to see what it was.

            It was something she would have cried for last week (for an entirely different reason). Something that she had silently begged, something that she had privately imagined.

            And now… Sansa didn’t see it that way.

            A _thing_.

            An _apology_.

            If Petyr – if a _man_ like Petyr, who was so self-assured and wrapped within his own mind – could _stoop so low_ as to offer an apology.

            But if he was offering it, then Sansa would be a fool not to guilt him into giving her an orgasm.

            Sansa pushed back into his cock, still covered by slacks. The fabric was a different sort of rough. Each time it pressed against her swollen clit, Sansa winced in pain. Each time it pressed just a fraction deeper into her core, Sansa caught her breath. She couldn’t tell whether her _hysterics_ had softened him or not. But sliding across her cunt had turned him hard again.

            Sansa pushed harder and harder. Worked until she couldn’t think – couldn’t let the whispers in her mind take hold. All that existed was their tandem movements, the ache between her legs, the soreness of her clit and nipples. She breathed out a silent _more_.

            The flesh that captured her head (his fingers, she realized) pressed into her temples, demanding Sansa to _look at me_. She didn’t. Shut eyes tighter. Bit her lips. Pushed the press of his fingers out of her existence. Focused on rolling her hips in tune with his. She wasn’t willing to give Petyr any ounce of satisfaction until he explained _why_ he thought she was ready for something she clearly wasn’t. She wasn’t willing to sigh or moan or come for him until Sansa made him come first.

            Petyr caught on. Released her face, slamming down over her own hands. Prying them away from their death-grip. Sansa gripped harder, resistant to give herself up just yet.

            She failed. Petyr laced his fingers together with hers as he brought their hands above Sansa’s head. Her knuckles slammed into the wood, throbbing white running down her arms. The pain forced Sansa’s eyes open.

            Straight into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, mere inches from her own.

            “You never fucking _learn_ , do you,” Petyr growled between breaths.

            She was about to retort – the words _you never fucking_ teach _, do you_ – already in her mind. In her throat.

            Petyr didn’t let her do more than open her mouth before he pulled at the chain still clamping her breasts with his teeth. Sansa cried out – in pain, in pleasure. At the fact that Petyr had thrust against her cunt just as he shot pain into her nipples.

            Sansa bit her lips to fight against the moans, but she was too late. The sound filled the gaps between the creaking of the wood and the slapping of his clothed hips between her naked thighs.

            “ _Fuck you,_ ” she whispered. Hoping and fearing that he heard.

            Petyr seemed encouraged by her moaning, however. His hips nearly faltered – so shaken up by the sound of her voice, as if he _missed_ hearing her and longed for it. But they resumed their punishing pace. Resumed rubbing against her clit.

            He _had_ to have been waiting for her to come first, too.

            Neither of them wanted to _lose_.

            His hands loosened their grip, one capturing both of Sansa’s wrists in a looser hold. She missed the rough grip – stretched her fingers until she scratched at his skin. Petyr’s other hand ran down her arm, leaving biting lines illuminating exactly where his fingernails dug on their journey. Sansa wondered if they would bruise and redden.

            Petyr dragged his hand through her hair, down her face, thumb pushing against her lips. She thought to open and let him fuck her with his fingers, except Petyr continued moving down. Her chin, jaw, throat, until finally it lay atop her neck.

            Sansa gasped as she imagined Petyr pressing down. Clamping fingers around her neck. Holding her life between them – and pressing pressing pressing until there wasn’t anything left of her.

            Petyr instead pulled on her hair, tilting her head into an almost painful angle. He let go of the chain, moved his head so teeth tailed the same line from her mouth to the join of her neck. He licked and bit and sucked on her exposed throat. The thrusts of his hips had slowed as Petyr drew his attention into this.

            It would leave a mark.

            Sansa wanted him to.

            Whether it was the feel of the act or the idea of his mark lasting throughout the week – the cry that escaped her lips was filled with pent-up lust.

            Gods, just letting it loose was almost as good as an orgasm.

            Sansa opened her eyes to find Petyr rising to stare into hers. His lips were bruised from the act. She felt the angry kiss he left upon her neck. It was a delicious sort of burn.

            Words tried to escape her lips, but none of them succeeded. What did she even want to say? There were an infinite variations of _fuck you_ ’s that could work, and Sansa truly felt each of them.

            Sansa pushed against his hand encasing her wrist. Petyr didn’t fight back. Let her lace one of her hands with his, and thread her other into his hair. Pulled back on his head and pulled Petyr in to bite and suck where his shirt collar hung open.

            If Petyr could leave a mark on her skin, then so could she.

            She might not have done it right – it could very well fade by morning – but Sansa recalled the way his teeth and lips had worked at her own neck and replicated the motions. The feelings. Relishing in the soft gasps Petyr let loose as she bit harder. The pulsing thrum of his blood just beneath the surface. The taste of him in her nose and on her tongue.

            Petyr meanwhile worked his own free hand down her chest, giving the chain a slight tug before continuing its journey southward. To join his cock that had slowed but now picked up its earlier rhythm. To eke out the ache that pulsated between Sansa’s thighs. He dipped a single finger into her cunt, delighting in how quickly Sansa moaned and pushed herself into the feeling. Petyr didn’t leave his finger there, or join in the rocking along her folds. That finger found her clit – already aching and swollen from so much pressure – and rubbed it. Flicked it, caressed it so unlike the merciless grip of the clamp before. It was still incredibly sore, the slightest press against it had Sansa wincing in pain.

            But Petyr didn’t stop. Didn’t let up even as Sansa’s mouth had fallen off course of marking his throat. She gripped tighter those dark curls, pulling Petyr into her. Needing the feeling of him. Hating the feeling of clothes against her skin instead of his own.

            On and on Petyr tortured her with his touch. He was close – thrusts erratic, even his finger had trouble staying on course. Waiting. Waiting for Sansa.

            She didn’t want to come first, but she couldn’t help it. Everything was too much – his rocking hips, his wicked finger, the numbing ache of her nipples and cunt. The myriad of scratches and marks and bruises she would carry tomorrow. The _mark_ that she would see and press and wince at days later.

            Sansa arched her back as she came.

            Her cries were still hanging in the air as she heard and felt Petyr come too. He dropped his head above her breasts, careful (or lucky) not to fall onto the clamps. His breaths were hot and fast against her throat. Sansa could feel his heartbeat pound through his clothes and skin, mimicking her own erratic beating.

            The world was ringing. An empty ringing, filled with the warm bliss that spread into every inch of her body. Dragging her down into a weightless slumber.

            Gods, it was worth it.

            “Holy shit.”

            Petyr practically growled a _Get out_ at whoever was at the doorway. He didn’t even bother to lift his head to do it. Sansa pulled herself out of that warm embrace to see who it was, but all she saw was a departing cascade of red.

            Just like that, reality came crashing down.

            How long had they been like this? Fucking but not fucking, holding back their orgasms until the last possible moment? Marking each other inside and out.

            “When will you ever learn, sweetling,” Petyr mused, drawing small circles against her inner thigh. His hand was stuck between both of their hips, but Petyr didn’t seem to mind.

            Sansa’s immediate reaction was to shirk away from his touch. The voice inside her told her to, too. That in their post-orgasm, nothing they said mattered. This was the end – and at least she went out with a bang. _Don’t let him touch you. Get your things and leave with your dignity intact_.

            Except she didn’t.

            Petyr shifted his head so he could stare at her. Flicked his gaze to the doorway behind. She could hear it – sounds of the party about to begin. Whoever it was earlier had to have been looking for him. To announce it was time to start, that preparations were complete. Except – they ran across their boss fucking an obviously younger girl right here on the table.

            How long had they stopped and stared?

            When Petyr looked back at her, Sansa saw something wholly terrible written in his face. “Unless, you would like the be the opening act for tonight…?”

            She wished he wouldn’t beat around the bushes. Would just get on with telling her he was done teaching her and she was free to try and woo Joffrey on her own.

            _You never fucking learn, do you?_

            Petyr’s words rang over and over in her head. She realized it now – even during all _that_ , there was the echo of his voice inside her. Urging her to prove him right. To prove him wrong.

            “I've some business to attend to across the Sea. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. Though trust me, sweetling, I'd much rather be _teaching_ you than leaving.”

            And the way he said it – Sansa though Petyr meant it.

            She didn’t reply. Didn’t move away her gaze. Or her body, as Petyr unlaced their fingers and ran his lightly down her arms, tangling in the mess of her hair. He loved doing that. Threading curls between fingers. Almost amazed at the color and shape of it.

            Sansa clenched and unclenched her now-cooling hand.

            “I should go, Petyr.”

            Petyr didn’t say anything in response. He stayed on top of her for a few seconds longer, _unwilling_ almost to let her go. Only, if he truly was unwilling, he would have said something. Right?

            He helped removed the clamps from her breasts one at a time. With each, he rubbed at the flesh around it, removing the metal and rubber and quickly replacing it with his mouth. Sucking as hard, gradually decreasing the pressure until Petyr’s tongue was only a gentle lapping.

            He sat on the edge of the table, hands clasped between his thighs as he watched and waited for Sansa to dress herself. That disinterest said everything that her internal whispers had been saying throughout the evening.

            She strapped on her heels last and was just through the threshold when Petyr said behind her: “I’ll let you know when I’m back in Westeros, sweetling.”

            Sansa pressed against the stone. Something urged her to look back. To smile at the fact that it _wasn’t_ truly over (she thought). Or that she would have another chance to redeem herself. To prove to Petyr and herself that she could learn.

            Sansa didn’t say anything – didn’t look back – as she left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So I had to rewrite the last few thousand words, but it still ended up pretty good! Which, uh, the angry sex I definitely didn’t plan for, but honestly I like how it came out!]


	7. lesson 6: disobedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Petyr chapter this time! A little bit of angst and a little bit of fun, ‘cause that's how I roll.
> 
> Lots of love for all of you!! :) I hope y'all like this chapter!]

            Petyr had fucked up.

            Which wasn't something _entirely_ foreign to him. There were times were he would _purposefully_ fuck up (or give off that appearance) to humble himself around people that got wary whenever someone as _low_ as he started climbing higher. It helped, too, that people like that looked down on anyone in the pleasure industry. Certainly no one who dealt in flesh was anyone of import. Certainly Petyr was just a disgusting little man with nothing to bargain.

            Except Petyr _knew_. Everything. Which politicians came to his establishment and which ones didn't (which were few). What they entertained in their darkest fantasies. Whether they preferred to beat or be beaten. And how _loose_ their lips become under experienced fingers.

            Petyr could set the entirety of Westeros ablaze if he so chose. Not yet – he always told himself not yet. Soon.

            But Petyr had fucked over something he hadn't planned to.

            Some _one_.

            _Sansa._

            Not in one thing – several, each crashing down that same night.

            A part of him _knew_ he should have stopped when he saw Sansa fighting against the first clamps. A terrible pressure, yes, but something Petyr had genuinely thought she could handle. She survived (read: enjoyed) the beatings from before – a good sign for the Dom she wanted to entertain. And she managed through the ones on her nipples, which was a test of perseverance and self-control not to rip them off.

            Petyr truly did mean it when he told her she could handle the one on her clit.

            At least, that’s what he told himself now. A part of Petyr had wanted Sansa to prove herself. And another part wanted to prove that Sansa was a _fool_. For trying to win the heart of a heartless Lion. For putting someone else’s needs and desires above hers. For never caring about herself.

            He'd barely closed it when Sansa began writhing against it. It _was_ too fucking much for her to handle – her body still so new to craving pain. She didn’t know her limits, and she didn’t care. Not so long as she got Joffrey in the end – she would endure hell for her whimsical fantasy.

            Petyr’s fingers froze on the clamp. Waiting for her to back out.

            His eyes darted to her face. It was obviously too much, and Sansa would be stupid not to safe word her way out of it. There wasn't any shame in admitting she wasn't ready, or that Sansa (and he) had overshot her ability.

            She bit her lips closed, almost hard enough to draw blood. Her eyes shut tightly. In pain, yes. But in an effort to stifle any possible cries to stop. Any possibility that she would let loose her safe word. That she would admit failure.

            Again.

            Sansa was going to endure whatever the hell Petyr put her through. Even if she felt like she was going to die – Sansa would quietly suffer. And all for the sake of that fucking bastard who deserved only a volley of kicks to his smug face. Even with her often blatant inexperience, that small-dicked Lion didn't deserve Sansa.

            Petyr didn't know whether it was Sansa's stubbornness, or remembering that she did all of this for Joffrey's favor – but something in him snapped.

            His fingers threw off the third clamp, hands flying up to capture her thrashing head. His hips pushing forward to ease her out of the clamp’s hold. To still the pain above and below. And with fingers, to work in the words that she seemed deaf to: _it's okay, you’re okay_. Sansa didn't open her eyes. Shut them tighter at his touch.

            A true Dom would have sent Sansa home without an orgasm. She needed to _learn_ (still) that not following the rules was out of the question. That it would lead to any sort of punishment, the worse the longer she went disobeying orders. Denial being one of the easiest, though impersonal spankings and physical punishments were just as effective.

            Except this honestly might have been too much. And honestly might have been the last time she'd allow herself under his touch.

            Petyr pressed harder into her, rubbing his cock against her folds. To ease away the pain of the clamp, he told himself. To help bring her out of the thrashing that had overtaken her body and mind.

            But to enjoy her, too. To relish in this final night with his red-haired memory.

            Petyr wasn't sure if it was _good_ that he left his cock in his pants. A safer way to say goodbye. But a painful ache for _him_. To not be fully sheathed and listen to Sansa's voice cry his name. To listen to the way her body reacted and moved in tandem.

            He'd make this one time – their final time – last.

            “ _You never fucking learn, do you?_ ”

            The growled words still echoed in Petyr's mind, weeks later. Impatience at Sansa, for _still_ thinking she could handle everything on her own.

            Admission at himself, for letting a woman like her happen _again_.

            Petyr didn't reign in the emotion as he continued to fuck her, to make her sigh and cry and moan under his touch. And that bruised kiss upon her neck – how long did it last? It was probably gone by now. Every last reminder of what Petyr had done to her, with her – Sansa was freed.

            Only, Petyr wasn’t sure if he truly wanted to let her go.

            Or, that’s what he debated with himself over a second glass of whiskey.

            He needed a break as much as Sansa did.

            Five weeks had passed since. The trip to Pentos (which was the truth) finished in late February, and the days now were edging close to April.

            He thought perhaps cutting Sansa from his life completely would be in both their best interests. She was an awful drug: the sounds she made as he touched her, the feeling of her skin arching into him, the way she tasted. All of it had made Petyr want to increase how often they saw each other. He was so _tempted_ that first weekend in February after he whipped her to offer her to sleep over. To be _kind_ – it was late and she had a long drive back to King's Landing. Only, under the same roof (like hell would Petyr have gone back to his own home), he couldn't guarantee she would have gotten any rest. Their lessons would have continued long into dawn. Till dusk.

            Yes, cutting Sansa out was the moral choice. Except…

            Except Sansa would still go willingly toward that bastard regardless of how inexperienced she was with sex.

            Petyr slammed the glass against the desk, ruffling his fingers through his hair. It was a mess. His hair, his thoughts. The blasted _ache_ that took hold of his heart and squeezed and squeezed until it was certain to pop.

            Gods above, he _wanted_ her. Any person would be foolish not to want to collapse at Sansa's feet and beg for her love, for her body. To use and adore and worship. And so so many times Petyr's body nearly shut out any semblance of logic and caved into that base urge. _Nearly_. There was something about just fucking her and relishing in the feel of it. But…

            But Petyr wanted Sansa to _want_ him. To crave for him the same he way did her. Didn't want Sansa to feel obligated to be with him because of this damned ruse of being her teacher.

            Sansa didn't want Petyr, though. Despite what he wanted to read in her eyes and her moans and the way she clawed at him. Despite how much he hoped he saw the same need. But deep down, Petyr was only temporary. Petyr wasn't the one she truly wanted, in the end.

            But, maybe.

            It was sick.

            The third glass of whiskey had disappeared. Petyr hadn't remembering pouring it, only slamming the glass down on its edge so it toppled. He watch the remaining dregs slither out of the glass and coil atop his desk.

            It was long into Saturday night. Maybe it was Sunday morning, he couldn’t tell. Petyr sat in his office at The Mockingbird (not in an attempt to drive home the pain that hadn't left him in over a month), but because he had to continue ruse. Albeit, there was an event downstairs as a celebration for one of the fucking Seven. Whichever one was the early spring one. Mother or Maiden, he didn't remember and didn't care. Ros and Olyvar were _kind_ enough to step in and take over when Petyr needed them. And they were kinder never to bother why his whiskey stores had started depleting so quickly.

            But even without a party, he remained at The Mockingbird on Saturdays. To continue the ruse with everyone else who'd question it.

            Not to mention it was somewhere where no one would fucking care if he drank till he couldn’t think.

* * *

            Petyr stared at the screen blinding his eyes. A pounding headache swarmed through him, something he felt thrumming through his entire body.

            The buzz of his phone woke him. He hadn't even caught when he fell asleep. Below he couldn't hear the thrum of music or the echoes sighs. Although, his office had soundproofing, and his head had a shit-ton of alcohol swirling inside it, so maybe he just didn’t hear anything.

            He'd kept his phone in sight just in case. In case he ever got the foolish urge to ask for _forgiveness._ In case she ever got the foolish urge to ask for more heartache and pain.

            Admittedly there were times in dreams where Petyr imagined Sansa pleading to have him back. Begging for him, realizing that it's Petyr she truly wanted.

            Oh, what a childish fantasy.

            Only it was there, staring at him:

            _Ok_.

            Fuck _._

            A bad dream. Petyr shut his eyes tightly, enough that it hurt. When he'd open them, that imagined text would be gone.

            _Ok_.

            Ice froze his heart, his eyes staring at the screen until it finally dimmed off.

            What the fuck had he said. What the fuck had he done. How much had he fucking drank.

            His fingers trembled as he grabbed hold of the phone and flicked it on. Hovered over the text, dying to know what he said and what that _Ok._ was in response to.

            _I never want to see you again._

            _You are a failure._

            _I'm glad Joffrey is going to fuck you up, you have no idea what kind of shit he does to naive girls like you._

            Petyr hated that all of them could be real.

            If he never looked – deletes the message and go back to sleep – maybe he could push Sansa completely out of his life.

            As if he hadn't tried for weeks now.

            Deep breath.

            _If you're still willing to learn, I'll be here all day tomorrow._

            _Ok._

            What the fuck did _Ok._ mean?

            _Ok, I'll see you there tomorrow._

            _Ok, but I hate you and I never want to see you again._

            _Ok._

            It was almost worse than an outright _No_.

            Petyr stared at the time. It was nearing two in the morning. His text was around midnight. Sansa's was three minutes ago.

            What the fuck did it all mean though?

            His mind wasn't being cooperative right now. He was torn. No way in seven hells would she want to see him, or _want_ him the way he craved her.

            But…

            A second chance. Maybe.

            Gods, he definitely _was_ dreaming.

            There was no reason the ghost of his childhood would ever allow him a second chance. The original never had, never looked back on him after Petyr nearly died.

            He didn't want to go to sleep. Didn't want the reality to come crashing down on him.

            Sansa wouldn't ever want him.

            Today. Only for today, only until she never showed up, Petyr could pretend she did.

* * *

            He hardly got any sleep.

            Partially because of a phone call he had received just as dawn peeked over the horizon. A flurry of _excuses_ he had to give why he wasn't home yet, excuses why his work wasn't finished yet. Why he had to stay today, too. The lies – like all of them – came easily, even with the hangover probing fingers throughout his head.

            Sundays were usually quiet at The Mockingbird, only because it was easier for people to party and fuck on Saturdays without the fear of having to go back to their work or families the next day. That isn't to say the towers never saw use. Just less of it than the night before.

            He spent the morning going through inventory and checking that his security had kicked out any overnight guests. He said _Hello_ to the people working to clean and tidy up the rooms and grounds, of who Petyr made sure to pay just as well as the people who worked with their flesh. If employees were paid and treated well, they were less likely to run and spill secrets.

            Like Ros.

            Petyr had lost track of the minutes, lost track of reason as he clawed and bit and pushed himself against Sansa. If he could, he would have cancelled the party just to have whatever final extra minutes with his red-haired beauty. Then reality thundered in at Ros’ exclamation. At her surprise that her boss exhibited some level of human urges.

            Were it any other employee, Petyr would have had them fired and _conveniently_ removed to a different country. There was a level of trust between Ros and Petyr, but he couldn't deny staring at her and wondering – _just maybe –_ if she would break that trust should a better offer come up.

            On the other hand, the intrusion made it easier to say goodbye.

            For the whole morning, Petyr made sure his phone was set to the loudest ringer. Checked it every few minutes, thinking he'd heard it or felt it. Willed it to make noise. Wished it to confirm whether or not he truly did fuck everything up or if his new past was willing to _forgive._

            He did receive a few _unwanted_ messages that Petyr decided to ignore.

            Noon came and passed, and nothing.

            Petyr spent hours sitting in his office, trying (and only partly failing) to go through the spreadsheets and predictions for the rest of the year. It was going well, The Mockingbird’s finances. A considerable gain in attendance whenever someone important like a celebrity deigned to make their sins known. Some didn't care, and others did it for the infamous reputation. There were others, behind the scenes, expunging any trace of politicians who visited from the public eye. A futile attempt, since they never considered the owner of this place to be of any concern.

            Petyr took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. Rubbed the strain from his eyes, ran fingers through his hair. It was an hour till sudown, and nothing. Nothing he cared about. He'd received more and more frantic texts and missed calls, all of which Petyr itched to send straight to voicemail. Only, doing that would add to the panic on the other line.

            He would give Sansa ten more minutes. It was a school day tomorrow, and unless Sansa completely changed since they last met, she wasn't coming (of which was highly doubtful. She hadn't managed to change a bit in their short time together, only chose to reveal who really lurked beneath the shy smiles).

            Slowly he closed up and turned everything off, taking his time. Not wanting to rush and miss his last chance.

            Except going slow still didn't bring a call to his phone or a notification that someone was at the front door.

            He waited longer than ten minutes. The sun set the world on fire, light filtering through the room like dragon’s breath in those foolish fairy tales.

            Nothing.

            Petyr resignedly walked down the stairs. He laughed at himself. There wasn't any more time for pity. He'd pitied himself enough the first time a girl left him for dead, and Petyr wasn't stupid enough to curl up and wait for Death this time.

            Petyr would get over Sansa, no matter how much he didn't want to.

            His fingers wrapped around the handle of the front door. A muffled _ping_ erupted from his phone. He mentally began drafting the text he'd need to send once he got settled in his car. Hoped for an accident on the King’s Road so he would be home long after nightfall.

            Petyr froze with the door wide open in his hand.

            A dream. A cruel dream.

            Fingers tightened around the metal. If Petyr didn't move, didn't breath, the ghost wouldn't leave him. It was cruel how beautiful an imagined thing could be. Or perhaps she only looked beautiful in the weeks he spent alone.

            Petyr didn't want to leave this spot. Because if he didn't, then he wouldn't have to give her up. To say goodbye again.

            She didn't move either, staring down at him with the ocean hidden behind her gaze. Waiting for the mortal to move before swooping in to lead him into one of the hells. The lowest one. To writhe for all of the sins he had committed.

            “Hello… Petyr.”

            Her voice was sweeter than he remembered. How wicked this apparition was, calling for him towards his own death. Were she to coax him out from the tower and towards the God’s Eye, straight into the coldl water, Petyr would willingly grab hold of her hand.

            Perhaps it _wasn't_ a dream.

            Perhaps.

            “Sansa.”

            The word – her name – came out as a long-held breath, a prayer that Petyr had been mentally preparing for all day. For weeks.

            They stood like that for a few minutes, neither of them quite believing they were there. It wasn't long before Petyr’s soul reconnected with his body and offered Sansa to come inside. She followed. He made sure not to lead her into their usual room; Petyr didn't want any unwanted memories clouding their conversation.

            “How was your trip?” Sansa said by way of pleasantry. Likely not wanting to broach the subject that sat heavily between them.

            “It was fine. Hot, despite the months.” And for the briefest moment, Petyr felt guilty not bringing Sansa back anything. What would she have even liked?

            She nodded. Toyed with the cuffs of her coat. Petyr saw that she didn't wear the same attire he had come to expect of her. No heels, no hems hitching into impropriety. No allusions that she might not be wearing anything beneath.

            Would it have been cruel to tell her the truth? That Petyr had been back for _weeks._ That he hadn’t imagined Sansa back in his life because he thought she didn’t want him anymore. That he wasn’t worthy of her affection.

            Petyr clasped his hands together atop a knee. He’d invited Sansa over, but his voice was lost at the front door. Waiting, still, for the oncoming rejection. For his death.

            “I've had some time to think,” she began, glancing at Petyr. Did she know the _fear_ that shot through him at those words? No, not likely. His fingers hurt in the death grip his other hand held them in. “I… I apologize for not following your orders. I know I've said it before, but I… I'm not used to not being good at something. And I didn't want to disappoint.”

            Whom? Herself? Or Petyr? Or Joffrey?

            The last thought tasted bitter.

            “And I hadn't expected your trip to take so long, either.”

            That was Petyr's fault, a fault he now had no intention of telling her. How would Sansa react should he say the only reason his _trip_ finally ended was because he had been riotously drunk less than a day ago? Probably not well.

            Petyr only continued the lie. “I hadn't expected it to take longer, either, sweetling.”

            Sansa was staring him down, a quiet understanding of his lie. She was kind not to bring it up. Obviously a business trip wouldn't take five fucking weeks, not for the sorts of things Petyr dealt with.

            “I,” she began, licking her lips as she mulled over whatever thought had to have been roiling in her head. It had plenty of time to sink its claws in. Petyr held his breath. Afraid of whatever the ending would be.

            _I'm done with you,_ echoed painfully.

_I hate you._

_I wish we never met._

            “I promise to try and do better, Petyr, in admitting my faults. Assuming…”

            “‘Assuming’...?” Petyr offered, waiting.

            Her teeth left crescent indents on her bottom lip. “Assuming you haven't tired of me.” Sansa opened her mouth to add (what Petyr thought) _Sir_ , but didn't let the word cross her lips.

            Petyr wanted to fall down at her feet, clasp her knees with his hands, and plead for her not to have tired of _him_. Not to have tired of being used and abused and abandoned.

            He left the actions in his mind. “Of course not, sweetling. No one could ever tire of you.”

            Petyr had the feeling that wasn't what Sansa wanted to hear. She smiled – but only with her lips.

            “Will you... “ he rushed in, trailing off. _Will you be staying tonight_ , was one of the possibilities in his mind. The other, one that Petyr shoved deep down: _Will you be leaving me for dead like the ghost before you._

            Sansa didn't let him figure out the rest of the sentence. Finished it for him as she shook her head. “I don't think so. I've got to get back soon. My sister will tear the city apart if I don't come home.” A sad smile played at her mouth. “I just… I thought it be better to talk face to face.”

            _Careful, Petyr,_ he told himself.

            That was his entire mantra with the beautiful deity that was Sansa. _Careful_ meant not pushing her too far even if he thought she could handle it. She'd proven capable…until Petyr wasn't careful. _Careful_ meant not letting their relationship (whatever sort it was) go to complete shit. And to do that, Petyr needed to tread lightly.

            Their entire relationship sat on unstable gravel. Petyr sometimes felt buried beneath those rocks.

            “Have you touched yourself since we last met?” He wasn't sure if this was the _right_ or _appropriate_ course of conversation, but Petyr didn't want her to leave on such an uncertain tone. Not after she had just flitted back into his darkness. This was as close as he'd get to reaching for her hand and easing her into his arms.

            Sansa, as per her ingrained innocence, blushed. But she did not look away. Chewed at the inside of her lip before replying, “Yes, Sir. Although I didn’t think you were coming back.”

            Coming back from Essos, or coming back into her life?

            Petyr would have made the same conclusion. He had.

            The _Sir_ stirred his heart back into life, though. “I thought I told you you weren't allowed to without my permission?”

            It was easier to talk about the simplicity of _fucking_ than whatever labyrinth of emotions raged beneath his ribs. There was so fewer _what if’_ s when it came to carnal pleasures. If Petyr could rip out his heart, smash it and silence it – there were infinite times he wished he could.

            Maybe Sansa felt the same way. _Had_ to feel the same way, as she shifted her seat and leaned incrementally towards him. Her fingers had stopped fidgeting. “A pity you weren't around to punish me for it, Sir.” A pause. “A pity I didn't do it more.”

            Was this her way of asking for forgiveness? Of egging some realness out of him? A convoluted, roundabout baiting, one that only Sansa was capable of luring in someone like Petyr with.

            He baited her, too, with his words. “Oh? Well any good-natured Dom should work that disobedience out of a sub who chooses to follow only the orders she wants.”

            A little _too_ much – Sansa flinched slightly at the accusation. Petyr feared it was too much too soon.

            Except she lowered her eyes to his waist, licking lips as she dragged her gaze back into his. Petyr felt his cock twitch. A slender finger toyed with the band of her watch – although she didn’t check the time.

            “Would Sir like to punish me now?”

            _Of fucking course,_ Petyr thought.

            “Won't your sister wreck havoc in King's Landing if you're late?” Petyr said.

            Sansa finally glanced at her watch, stared at the seconds ticking away. Thinking, perhaps, just how much time she could spare here that she could make up tearing down the King’s Road.

            She'd been intensely calculating it, weighing it, Until Sansa finally said back, “It depends how fast you can make me come.”

            Petyr should have wondered why Sansa was so eager tonight. Why the sudden change in her demeanor once their relationship was strung back into existence. Despite the rocky foundation beneath them. Despite the fucking weeks he left her in the shadows. Petyr should have questioned it.

            He didn’t. He was a desperate man with basic needs. And before him – Sansa. How the fuck could he say no?

            “I'll only punish you for coming without permission, then,” he said.

            Sansa nodded, though a part of him saw that she wasn't entirely focusing on his words. Something in her head was dragging her attention. It wasn't until a soft silence filled the room did Sansa (looking through her lashes, tilting her head, spreading her legs just enough to grab Petyr's attention for a moment) speak:

            “Could Sir please punish me with his belt?”

            Petyr's breath caught.

            He found it, breathed, sent it down to his heart. Slowly, Petyr worked his fingers at the latch. “I will warn you, sweetling, that a punishment won't feel good. It isn't meant to. And using a belt instead of my hand will hurt even more.” He paused on that thought, waiting for Sansa to step back and ask for a _simpler_ punishment.

            “Good. Sir.” Her gaze only intensified. Some part of her was determined to feel the weight of her sins (whether they were because of Petyr or not). Some part of her rationalized that this is what she _deserved_.

            He punctuated her reply as Petyr slid the leather from the loops, folding it in half. Sansa watched him the while time. Licked her lips when he was finished.

            “If I may ask something Sir?”

            Petyr shoved out every negative whisper as he said, “Yes, sweetling.”

            She didn't reply. Instead, Sansa stood, collecting her things as she wove through the furniture in the main room. Petyr couldn't help but fear that she had only meant to work him up, to prove to herself that Petyr was an absolutely terrible person with one wicked thing in mind, and not a true human. Petyr wanted to call out: _Don't go. Please._

            Sansa turned at the base of the main staircase, hand perched upon the railing. Waiting. A silent command for Petyr to follow.

            So he did, catching up until he was only ever two steps below.

            Was this when Petyr was going to wake up and realize everything was part of a whiskey-induced dream? That the risky text, the waiting, the relief that spread through him at realizing he hadn't completely fucked everything up – all of it wasn't true.

            Sansa didn't flick on the light at the top of the stairs, letting her feet guide her through the mostly-dark room. Petyr was about to turn the lights on when Sansa whispered (as if knowing he would) _Don't_.

            So he didn't.

            Strips of orange and pink lit the night sky, a fading spectrum that would completely disappear in only minutes' time. Below was the God's Eye, a shimmering ring surrounding a black mass in the center.

            And that's how Petyr felt. The rocky mass, covered in shadow, incapable of being seen as the human or monster he truly was. And around him, corralling in the darkness – Sansa.

            She traced her fingers down the window, tracing an invisible pattern only she could see. And beyond the glass – what was she looking at? Did she see the same painting below? Or because of the quiet whispers in her mind, was Sansa the mass of untamable shadows? And if so, who or what was her guiding light?

            Not Petyr. Of that, he was certain. He was the thing that led her further into the pits of shadows and depravity.

            Sansa walked down the curve of the windows, stopping when she found whatever she was looking for. Petyr meanwhile watched in silent appreciation. In silent fear that it still wasn't real. The light caught her hair, her skin, casting her into the ethereal ghost she was.

            “Is this okay?” she asked.

            Sansa had found the thinnest window (‘thin’ being about four feet wide), and placed her hands on the mullions on either side. Her feet, Petyr saw, mimicked her hands. She'd spread herself lightly, waiting, hoping for affirmation.

            Petyr took a step forward, clutching tighter to the belt in his hands. “Turn to face the window, sweetling. Can you comfortably grab onto either side so you won't fall?” When she did, pushing her feet against the aluminum too, he said, “Perfect.”

            She let out a quiet _Thank you_ as if Petyr had answered some other unspoken question. He wanted to know. He didn’t want to.

            Petyr pushed the thought out. “Be honest, sweetling, how often have you thought of this?”

            In the reflection, he saw Sansa lick her lips. “Ever since I saw people at the party do it, Sir.”

            “And I promise the next time, they'll be a crowd of people below. Oblivious to what sort of _wicked_ things I'm doing to you.” He took a step forward, another, until he was just behind her. “Whipping you, fingering you, fucking you. And all they have to do is look up and see how not innocent you truly are.”

            Through the space between their bodies, Petyr felt Sansa's heart jump. He missed that. The _ease_ with which he could make her squirm and ache for things she never knew.

            He was going to miss it in May. So much.

            “I'm going to lift your dress up. But first, I _need_ you to promise that if something worries you or freaks you out or _hurts too much,_ you need to promise to tell me.” The third time he'd told her. He hoped it'd be the last – and only because after weeks of mulling over what she had done _wrong_ , Sansa finally learned.

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “Remind me what your safe words are.”

            “ _Pause_ , if I need to take a break or need to talk something through.” The grip on the metal tightened. “And _halt_ if I can't take it, or something feels wrong.”

            “Good. And how do you feel right now?” Because he, admittedly, lacked a bit on asking.

            He could see in his mind's eye Sansa licking her lips as she wondered what to say. “I'm fine, Sir. A little worried, but you promised you’ll make me feel better after it hurts.”

            _Do you trust me, Sansa._

            He left the question in his throat. She trusted him _enough_ to allow Petyr to do these sorts of things, after all.

            “Good. Remember this is punishment. It’s not going to feel good, not until after it’s over. If you're ready, we'll begin.”

            A slight shift of her feet. She tensed a bit at his words – whether in fear or anticipation, he couldn’t say. “I'm ready, Sir.”

            Petyr knelt, placing the belt beside one of Sansa's feet, just in view that she could agonize what it was going to feel like as Petyr worked his way up. He trailed his fingers up her legs in tandem, slowly, forgetting how soft her skin was. Sansa spread them _just a bit_ further when they traversed onto her thighs. But Petyr ignored the silent plea for his touch. Grasping instead the hem of her simple dress – It was a thin, summery thing, so unlike the finer dresses she’d worn before –  and lifted it.

            Over her ass were simple cotton panties. He left the dress bunched at her hips. Petyr couldn't help but sigh in disappointment. “I thought I told you to always wear your gift, or nothing at all.”

            He could hear Sansa's protest of _But we weren't technically together when you asked me last night_ collide with _But we weren't technically over._ Instead she said, “I promise I'll wear them next time.”

            Petyr mused over a thought, running hands around to her front and dipping fingers just beneath the top of the cotton. But no further, to Sansa's dismay. “Do you care about them?”

            Sansa dragged herself away from the feeling of his skin, he felt. Dragged her logic away enough to say, “Not really, Sir.”

            “Good.” Petyr left for a few seconds to rummage through drawers, came back. Scissors _snik_ -ed the fabric at her hips in two swift cuts. It pooled at the floor. “Much better, wouldn't you agree?”

            She was torn, he could tell. Wanting clamp her legs together, wanting to open up further. She didn't argue, though. “Yes, Sir.”

            Petyr continued dragging the dress up, up her back and over her breasts, bunched as high as it would go. He wasn't _cruel_ enough to snip the fabric away, too. Although the thought of a completely naked Sansa having to figure out how to get back home, how to explain _why_ she left with clothes and came back with none…

            _Careful_.

            He undid the clasps of her bra (it was kind to leave her with half of a set of undergarments, right?), letting them fall forward to leave her back clear. His canvas, unmarked.

            Petyr ran fingers across her skin, tracing the constellations that lay hidden amidst the ivory. If he followed the stars, would they lead him back to Sansa? Or to somewhere, some _one_ , far far away?

            He didn't want to think of someone far away.

            Petyr grabbed and folded the belt in half, making sure the buckle was firmly hidden in his grasp. He wouldn't want to cause unnecessary harm to Sansa. _Careful,_ he reminded himself.

            “How many strikes do you think you earned...for your disobedience?” The last bit he added only to remind Sansa that right now, it wasn't going to feel good. That should she continue to ignore safety, to ignore the voice of reason within and without her mind, the future wouldn't be kind to her.

            “However many Sir thinks I deserve.”

            Only there was something in her voice, in the ease with which she slipped into the role of the punished. Like when Sansa asked to be spanked… There was something in her, Petyr realized, that was begging for the pain. As if she didn’t feel alive without the sting of hurt lacing over her pure skin. A twisted way of finding her assurance, of being comforted.

            Petyr only hoped it wasn't him she needed comforting from.

            Petyr knew a part of it, at least, was.

            He grunted. “Good choice. How many days did you touch yourself?” She at least remembered her manners. A step in the right direction. Though if Petyr was being honest with himself, Sansa could have asked for one, and he would have needed to remind himself not to cave in.

            He heard her gulp. As if he would have forgotten. “A few…”

            “A number, sweetling.”

            She had been responsive under his touch, so it must've been a few days since she last did. If Sansa truly had waited the five weeks, she would have come just from his mindless exploration.

            “Five or six times, Sir. I think I… I’m sorry.”

            A voice whispered: _It's not your fault, sweetling it's mine for being an ass_. A voice said: “We'll round up to ten.” Sansa's body tensed. “To account for when you forgot to use your safe words, the first time, too. You should be grateful I'm not adding more.”

            “Thank you, Sir.” There was no thankfulness in her tone. Which was to be expected.

            Petyr ran a hand along her back, her ass, her thighs, warming the skin for the punishment. Enjoying how soft her skin was, how her body would ache just a bit into his touch. He missed this – gods, why the fuck did he wallow for five fucking weeks.

            “They will hurt,” he reminded her for the third time, offering her a final chance to back out. “Because they weren't earned for being a good sub. They'll feel nothing like the whipping I gave you before. I want you to remember the feeling of them when you next decide to ignore your Dom's rules.”

            Sansa sucked in a breath as Petyr kneaded the flesh of her ass. He wasn't sure where to start – and had to remind himself that this wasn't going to be fun for him, either.

            “Count them for me, sub.”

            He didn't give her any warning before he flicked his arm and struck her across both cheeks. The _crack_ echoed in the space between them.

            Sansa cried out, pressed her body into the glass to get away. Petyr saw her knuckles tighten across the mullion until they were ghostly white.

            He gave her several long seconds to compose herself. Was it a blessing that Petyr couldn't see her face? Couldn't see the pain rippling over her, the tears she bit back? Yes. Because he didn't know what he'd do if he did. And that uncertainty was terrifying.

            Sansa was his biggest uncertainty.

            A few more seconds passed in silence. “If you don't count for me, sub, I'll start over. If you forget again, I'll add more.”

            There was a quiet hiss – hardly a breath, Petyr almost didn't catch it – where Sansa ground out a _Fuck you_ before saying louder “One. Sir.”

            He was torn, if he was being honest with himself. Something deep inside him _hated_ the way Sansa tensed against his body. How the swear wasn't the first time – a less hidden expletive when he'd clamped her clit.

            But – like a mantra, one that Petyr often ignored – he told himself Sansa wasn't his.

            A finger lightly ran over the pink line before he left the second strike on Sansa ,high on her left thigh. There was the quietest crack in her voice as she counted, “Two.”

            The leather bit into her other thigh. The crack – of the belt, of Sansa's words – echoed louder. “Three.”

            By the time Petyr landed the fifth strike to the small of her back, he could hear the tears she failed to fight back. He asked her how she was feeling, because she seemed determined not to let him now. Sansa said she was fine.

            By the time Petyr landed the next blow (again on her ass) he wanted to throw the belt across the room, release Sansa's grip on the window, and cradle her as the tears ran down her jaw. As she told him that she was sorry and that she would promise to be a better sub – a perfect sub.

            Petyr needed only think of that smug fucking Lion to claw away those intimate thoughts. To keep the bite in his strikes.

            The gap between the ninth and tenth seemed to go on forever. The final count was still lingering on Sansa's lips when Petyr ran his hands over hers, coaxing Sansa to release the iron grip on the metal. Perhaps it was the contrast with the angry red lining her skin, but the rest of Sansa was deathly white. Like the ghost of his past that he chased and chased.

            “You did amazing, Sansa. So perfect. It's over now, it's over.” Kind ramblings fell from his lips as he helped Sansa away from the window, led her to a nearby sofa where she promptly curled against his side. Not from love, he reminded himself. But from the sudden onslaught of emotions that wrecked havoc inside of her.

            A lesson unwillingly learned and taught.

            Petyr pressed his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the soft citrus and sweat of her as he continued to tell her how amazing she was. As his hands ran feather-light trails over her arms, her back, her legs. Not at all sexual. Comforting. A tactile message that he hoped she heard through her tears:

            _I'm sorry._

            He waited until her tears had dried and her sobs had stopped choking her. Waited several minutes longer. Petyr gently and quickly left Sansa to find a bottle if salve before asking her to lie on her stomach. He worked it in slowly, carefully. The red lines were impossibly hot beneath his fingers. The white skin was impossibly cold.

            When he was finishing on the marks along her thighs, Sansa mumbled something into the crook of her arm.

            “Sorry sweetling?”

            He also was – sorry.

            Sansa turned her head just enough for the words to make the journey into his ears. “Thank you, Sir. And…” She was staring at him, but her attention was focused somewhere in the middle. Once shining blue eyes were glazed over. “I'm sorry, Petyr. I’m sorry about this.”

            Did she _know_ – just how much this tense relationship affected him? That punishing her, even if it meant teaching her an important lesson, was something he dreaded? It was such an impersonal thing. Nothing at all like the sweet and rough and completely vile things he _did_ want to do. But only because he wanted Sansa to feel good, to collapse and shudder under his touch.

            She turned more, and Petyr saw how red and puffy the skin around her eyes was.

            And Petyr felt the last vestiges of the shadow surrounding his heart shatter.

            Never again did he want to see her cry. To be the recipient of her apologies.

            “Thank you, Sansa. I hope you've learned your lesson.”

            What the fuck? Petyr wanted to punch himself in the face for that lackluster response. What ever happened to not being impersonal, he told himself. Whatever happened to fucking _careful_?

            Only, it'd been so long since that dual ache – a painful and wonderful ache –  beat inside his chest. Thrummed down his veins. He'd forgotten how to be kind, truly kind.

            “Can you lift your ass up for me, sweetling. I’m going to ease away your pain.”

            She did, through unspoken curses and clenched teeth. Because she didn't want to disappoint, yes. But more likely – because she knew letting Petyr bring on her release would help silence her own slew of doubts and fears.

            This was all a drug to help Sansa quiet herself.

            And gods help Petyr if he didn't want to keep dealing to her.

            He was careful, so fucking careful, as he pressed her legs apart, wrapped his hands over her thighs. None of the marks had broken skin, though several would leave lasting bruises. He slid fingers around them, avoiding them. Slowly Petyr lapped over her cunt. Didn't bother with teasing her, or nipping at her folds or her clit to make her scream. A complete opposite from the cold lashings he unleashed on her back.

            Perhaps Petyr could make known his _affections_ through his actions and not his words. A first in a long, long time that words had failed him.

            He went slow to ease Sansa back into the safety of his touch. A terrible whiplash for subs. Something that Doms had to learn to tread careful: to break through the shadows and pull their sub back into the warmth, all the while making sure their sub didn't break or shatter from the sudden change.

            Sansa pressed back into Petyr’s mouth, hissing more from wanting his tongue deeper rather than the angry lines that he had painted over her back. Good.

            His jaw was starting to ache, his neck too, craned in such a way to dip his tongue as far as possible into her folds. But the taste of Sansa, the feel of her body reacting and moving in rhythm to his ministrations – all of it kept Petyr determined to ease Sansa into the softest orgasm he could give her.

            _I'm sorry,_ his tongue said as he pulled out to run it down the length of her. _Forgive me,_ he said as he gently sucked on her clit, earning am unquiet moan in response. Was that Sansa's unspoken way of saying _I forgive you_. Gods he hoped so.

            The sun had long set by the time Sansa's release built up to shatter over him. He drank her in, drunk on the taste and smell and _everything_ about her.

            Gone. He was long fucking gone.

            Sansa sank into the cushions, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. Petyr applied some more salve on the nastiest marks, and to the ones on her thighs that had rubbed off on his arms and sleeves. He let fingers wander, afterwards. Let them trail down her spine, up her sides. He couldn't help but hope it was enough to sate her. Enough to ease her back from the shadows that sank claws deep into her mind, her heart. Ease her back to him.

            Without warning, Sansa lifted herself. She didn't wince, either. Orgasming was one hell of a painkiller.

            She turned, tucking one leg beneath her as she ran a finger up Petyr's.

            A flash of memory. Of Sansa upside down, pressing her pink lips to the tip of his cock. The warmth of her mouth as she enveloped him, tasting him, teasing a tongue down the length. From the corner of his eye (he was so focused on her mouth, a wild glee remembering her lips were now _defiled_ because of him) he saw Sansa's hand twitch. To tap his wrist, he thought. But no. To join her mouth – only to find the restraints pulling her back.

            Petyr wanted to live in the euphoria of that day forever.

            That's what he clawed at. That pseudo-happiness. That peace between them, the future and past forgotten.

            When he returned, Sansa was already teasing the teeth of the zipper down. Slid thin fingers beneath,

            He would need to teach her handjobs, after all.

            “Sansa…” he breathed. To stop her. To ask her to continue.

            She sidled closer to him – so close, Petyr couldn't deny the flash of _what if_ should Sansa wrap her legs around his and sink herself onto his cock.

            She didn't. With determined slowness, Sansa lifted him free. Petyr hissed as she gripped his cock a little too tightly. As she tried to mimicked his motions just before he sank into her mouth. It was entirely new for Sansa. Entirely unknown. A turn off for some, Petyr knew. Except – the innocence of her, the way she tried to figure out how to give him the same blissful release he’d given her – it sent a twitch through his cock. And a thought: that the innocence of her fingers didn't belong to him, but some stupid boy in the North.

            The rest of her innocence Petyr was determined to have, before he had to send Sansa away.

            He had been hard before Sansa started, and her unsure movements slowly worked him harder. His cock pulsed in her grip. His lips let loose sighs that Sansa used to find her way through the unknown.

            “ _Faster_ , sweetling,” he breathed. She tried. The feeling of her skin on his, the depravity of it all made Petyr edge towards his own release – but it wasn't enough.

            Petyr gripped her hand. Sansa stopped hers, fingers loosened. In surprise and fear that she was doing everything _wrong_. He eased her movements, slow at first, then faster. “Like this, sweetling.”

            His gaze was torn. Between studying Sansa's expressions as she figured out how to work her hand over him, as she was taught the sort of speed and pressure that would ease Petyr closer towards coming. And between staring at the scene in question – at the hand that months ago would never have willingly touched a man’s cock.

            Petyr was close. He let go of Sansa's wrist, placing one hand on her waist and the other on her thigh. His hips thrust into her grip, the always-present need for _more_ quieting all other thoughts in his mind. Petyr closed his eyes, and imagined the warm press of her mouth over him. The rough thrusts against her cunt. Imagined what it would feel if – _when_ – he’d thrust inside her. Close, so close now, Petyr’s movements were growing erratic. It wouldn’t be long before he came.

            Except she stopped.

            He shot his gaze towards her, and his confusion caught in his throat.

            There was a wicked gleam to her eyes, her lips. A mirror of what often lingered on his. Sansa kept her hand around his length, a slow tortuous stroke as if to remind him who was in charge (as if Petyr didn't already know). With a bitten back wince, Sansa straddled Petyr's legs. He felt all of his blood rush down into his cock.

            His heart froze.

            She sat far enough away is if to keep a measure of _proprietary_ between them. One hand around his length, one hand on his shoulder to keep her balance. Only she spread her legs wider, pressed her cunt against his thigh. Rubbed against him to work up her own need. Sansa moved her hand in the same rhythm – slow at first, growing faster and faster until Sansa began to lose herself in the building ache between her legs.

            And just when Petyr thought she was about to come again, Sansa stood, pushed her body nearly flush with his. The tip of his cock sat just below her entrance.

            Petyr bit his lips. Words stumbled from his brain into his throat, finally finding their way into his mouth. The words – once said – would shatter this tenuous peace. He didn't want to say them. Loathed the quarter of his mind that kept logic awake. She had just pressed the tip of him against her folds when they erupted from his lips: “Wouldn't your virginity be the sweetest gift for Joffrey, sweetling?”

            Just as he thought, Sansa's devilish smile turned wry, as if biting into a particularly sour lemon. Because as much as she wanted this – as much as both of them were on the verge of losing themselves -  she couldn't shut off her brain once the idea took hold, either.

            Sansa bit her lip, nodded.

            He _wanted_ her like he hadn't wanted anyone. Ever, if he was being true to himself. The child Petyr was a _fool_ who didn't know where to put his affections. The adult Petyr was a fool who found them, dusted them off, and set them gingerly atop his ghost's likeness.

            And Sansa wanted him. Or wanted the release he could draw from her. Right now everything was muddied up in the haze of lust.

            “I want you to think over everything, sweetling,” he began, lazily running the pads of his fingers over her hips. The beat beneath her skin was a roar he felt mimicked in his chest. He hadn't come, and that haze was making it harder to think logically. Especially with her legs wrapped around him. Especially with his cock now resting against her inner thigh, inches from her aching cunt. Waiting eagerly to sink herself on him. “If you really are ready to continue your lessons, we can start next weekend. Unless you’re free sooner.” _Please gods, please._ “There's a lot we’ll need to make up, though some of it will be as unpleasant as the clamps.” She flinched at that.

            “I know,” Petyr continued. “and you still need to master those. Later. But I want you to think over whether you are mentally and physically prepared to go on with this, Sansa. There won't be any shame if you back out.” _But please don't_.

            She opened her mouth to argue or acquiesce, but Petyr shot his hand up to pause her lips with a finger. Sansa whipped away. Despite everything, she managed to hide the flurry of emotions inside her as she spoke. “Can I finish you off, Sir?”

            “Of course.” He thrust his hips to punctuate his response.

            It didn't take long. He had already been on the verge of coming when Sansa chose to test their relationship. Sansa stroked him a few more times, and Petyr thought a few more would see him off. There was a particularly visceral image of him fucking her – in every conceivable way – that led him neatly towards release.

            Except Sansa had worked herself off, too, and needed _more_. She urged Petyr further down the sofa so he was half-sitting half-lying down. She bent her legs atop the cushion, bent her body down against him. Not to fuck like how he ached. But to slide her cunt against the length of his cock. Needing that fullness but not willing (yet) to submit to it. Sansa’s head fell in the crook of his neck as she moaned with every thrust of their hips. Petyr pushed her against him, into him. Neither of them lasted long.

            In the wake after an orgasm, there was always a moment of clarity. Oftentimes it could be disgust at whatever video or novel being read – the depravity of it – that one doesn't fully comprehend when under the demanding hold of lust.

            For Petyr, his moment of clarity was just as disgusting as it was horrifying and confusing and terrifying.

            He loved Sansa.

            When they had found their way back to solid ground, he stared at her. Stared into soft eyes that weren’t quite back from their own pleasure. Stared deeper, into the soul that lived within, into the heart hammering against his. Wondered whether she’d had the same revelation, too.

            Sansa bid her farewell on the steps where she had bid her goodbye the last time they met. He had to fight the urge to kiss her farewell. Fight the urge to announce it to him and to her and to the world: I love you. Petyr watched as Sansa took off, not bothering to moving until the red taillights blinked out of view.

            There was a certain step to Petyr's gait as he went home. The roads clear, the sky blinking with stars. His fingers tapped along to whatever came streaming from the radio. He barely fished his pocket for that blasted loop of silver, sliding it onto his finger, before his phone let loose a muffled _ping._

            _I want ythis_

            Petyr’s heart skipped a few thunderous heartbeats. He stared at the typo. Couldn't help but think – and wish, and hope, and pray to the gods as if they could do anything – that Sansa had started typing _you_ and only changed it to _this_ midway.

            Or it merely was an error, and Petyr was too far fucking gone to see otherwise.

            His heart hammered at his brain. They fought, constantly, endlessly, ever since Petyr could reason or feel. Oft the heart was slumbering, piping up on occasion when necessary. Now there was a tumultuous storm raging inside of him.

            It felt _good_ to feel again.

            It felt _good_ to have Sansa in his life, however brief, because he was already devising plans to convince her to stay. Or more appropriately, to convince that blond fucker to leave. It wouldn't be too hard, he thought. Petyr had more than enough dirt on Joffrey to figure out how to get him away from Sansa. Or more easily, to convince Sansa not to go for him. But gently. Carefully.

            But more importantly: if Sansa came back to him once, then perhaps there was a thread of longing in her towards Petyr, too. He needed only grasp it, coax it, lead her to him without her knowing.

            For the first time in several miserable weeks, Petyr smiled.

            A pity he would fuck it all up again.


	8. lesson 7: ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hugs and kisses and so many thank you's to you for reading and commenting. Y'all are so sweet omg, and I'm so happy that you guys like this fic!!!!
> 
> This wound up being a sooo long omg I'm sorry! Admittedly I was gonna add more, but like, after what 15k I had to draw the line somewhere. I promise the rest of the chapters won't be nearly as long! Also, I think I should note that there will be some butt stuff this chapter. 
> 
> See you on the other side of this cesspit of sin ;) ]

            Sansa knew Petyr was lying.

            About his trip. His hand had clenched a little _too_ tightly at her probing. Not necessarily a _tell_. But something was off.

            About how much the punishment would hurt. It _did_ hurt, marks that likely wouldn't fade for a long time. And marks that thankfully weren't too high on her back or too low on her thighs that she couldn't hide them beneath shirt and shorts. (Whether Petyr planned that or not, she wasn't sure). Perhaps she _expected_ it to be worse. Expecting something that would cripple her, that would give her reason to stay at The Mockingbird for a few days. Either that, or something was stilling Petyr's strikes.

            And about...something else Sansa couldn't quite place. There was a _tension_ in his body all on Sunday. A breath he was holding, muscles he contracted as if ready to spring. Like he was holding onto a secret and was about to explode with its weight.

            One way or another, Petyr wasn't telling her the whole truth. Which was fine, she told herself, because there wasn't much time left for them.

            But Sansa was lying, too. About at least as many things as Petyr was. She had plenty of time to think these past few weeks. To think, and worry, and panic, among others. :

            _Wouldn’t your virginity be the sweetest gift for Joffrey?_

            Petyr's voice threaded through her mind, over and over on the way home. Drowning out Arya's and Gendry’s concerns when she walked in – what they said, Sansa couldn't remember.

            But Petyr was right. She needed to get back on course, steer herself back towards her goal. The night after their fallout (was it a fallout? Sansa freaked out and Petyr let her go – if anything it was a breakup. Only they weren't together. They were… there wasn't a word for what they were). That night, she was questioning how much she wanted it. Wanted Joffrey.

            Petyr was right, though. There wasn't any use in thinking that their not-a-relationship-but-not- _not_ -a-relationship could eventually evolve into anything else.

            Petyr only saw her as the naive, innocent girl that he could toy with for a few months. Toy with her body and her heart and her mind/ And on their expiration date, promptly kick her out come May.

            A pity. Sansa had been thinking (hoping) for...something else. That same uncertain something else that she saw tensing Petyr yesterday, maybe.

            Or maybe she was reading far too into this.

            Sansa clutched her phone tightly in her hand. It dug into her palm. Whenever she closed her eyes she could see kind blue eyes behind the text he sent:

            _We need to talk._

            She didn't want to. But it'd been five weeks – longer, really – and he was getting antsy.

            So Sansa reluctantly made plans for that Sunday morning. So Sansa reluctantly tossed and turned on her bed the night before, still not sure what she wanted to say. Still not sure if Joffrey would be a thing she was _capable_ of – if the clamps from before we're only a _test_ to the things he liked, how the fuck would she survive?

            Midnight came by so slowly, and still Sansa stared at the darkness of her bedroom. Outside was the flitter of the occasional car. Music from a party was a constant thrum against her chest, quiet but heavy enough to feel it.

            Light shone to her left. Sansa turned to see a notification on her phone. Half-heartedly (but also hopefully) she wished he'd cancel. All sorts of scenarios played through her head. But it wasn’t at all what she expected:

            _If you still want to learn, I’ll be here all day tomorrow._

            Sansa stared at the screen until her eyes burned. Long until it shut off and all she saw was a hazy bright rectangle against black. Every moment between them flooded the vast darkness. The touches, the words, the smiles. She didn't even think – hadn't entirely processed it – as fingers finally typed out a simple _Ok._ Except she didn't send it, not yet. Thumb hovered over the Send button, debating whether it was a trick, or a joke, or something worse to convince her of her endless failures that she seemed to only ever show him.

            Long minutes (or maybe hours?) passed before Sansa hit send.

            Sunday came, and Sansa clenched her phone until it was only moments from breaking. She might have heard it whine and creak in protest. Not because she was worried he would take the news poorly – but because the rejection would cement whatever terrible thing sat on her heart. What terrible thing had been sleeping, waiting for Sansa to realize what it was.

             “You're early!”

            Sansa turned and smiled at Harry. He was smiling too, as they began walking towards the cafe. The heart of downtown King’s Landing was bustling in the early morning chill, wind blowing through the winding streets. They had barely sat down when Harry's smile fell for a heartbeat as she answered his silent long game: “I think we should stay friends.”

            They didn't let their reservation go to waste. And Harry, to his credit, didn't make the situation awkward. His laughter filled their booth, his jokes just as cheerful as they always were. They talked about their plans for spring break even though they both knew neither had anything planned. And about their final project which they were split up for (a blessing, Sansa thought. She wasn't sure she could spend long nights staring at Harry without feeling the twitch to tell him she was sorry he was too late).

            Harry would have made a good boyfriend. A kind one.

            As she waved him goodbye and drove north, Sansa only hoped she hadn't made a mistake.

* * *

             “Thought you were going hiking with Arya and her boyfriend?”

            Myranda sucked on her spoon, scraping up whatever morsels lay hiding on her plate. Sansa avoided contact by trying to shovel food into hers. “Don't let Arya hear you call him that. She’ll kill you. Besides, I thought you'd have men lined up for the whole week? But here you are.”

            “Here I am.” Myranda only laughed. “Either you wanted to work on figuring out our phenomenon for Olenna, or you've got something you wanna say?”

            There was no use beating around the bush, not when Myranda had some sort of sixth sense of spying beneath Sansa's clothes to sense the marks of depravity that lingered there. Did she noticed the winces every time Sansa moved? Did she smell the lingering taste of Petyr on her? Or her own need that never subsided since January? Sansa wanted to talk about this with Jeyne, but still no word from her. Myranda was the next best option.

             “Randa, I need to ask you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.” _Especially Harry_. Sansa couldn't help but wonder if the only reason Harry had been so amicable yesterday was because he thought Sansa was too focused on her schooling. If he knew her heart was torn between two wicked desires, what would he think of her?

            But Myranda wouldn't care as much, Sansa thought. Or at least, Myranda might understand. A very simplified version of it – one where Sansa was still good and sweet and _innocent._ Maybe too innocent.

            Myranda – typically lost in whatever food put in front of her – dropped her spoon and leaned forward. “What's up, Sans?”

             “You have to promise not to tell first.”

            A mockery of a pledge with her hands. “I promise. You can throw me out the moon door if I betray your trust.”

            Sansa wasn't sure she wouldn’t. But if the gods still had some ounce of kindness after rekindling her and Petyr, perhaps they would be kind not to have Myranda judge or tattle.

            Deep breath. Sansa shoved her food away, which Myranda stacked on top of her plate. Quiet whisper. To her credit, Sansa kept eye contact with her friend.

             “What's it like the first time?”

            A hand slapped the table. The plates rattled. A spoon spun precariously close to the edge. Students nearby paused to look for a heartbeat, then turned away. Nothing too important, they decided. Chatter resumed, uncaring what dark secrets were spilling from Sansa's (im)pure lips.

            Myranda left her hand where it was, but her body was pressed so far into the table she might be eating it with her boobs. Surprise caught her soft face first (the sweet Sansa she'd known for years blushing at lewd comments). Slowly turning into understanding (the reluctance of Sansa joking about being freshly fucked). And even slower, Myranda’s smile tilted into something sly.

             “Have you done it yet? Or you asking for the future?” She had enough gossiping experience to keep her voice low.

            Sansa resisted chewing on her lip. Didn't want to give her friend the wrong impression of what she did on the weekends instead of studying like a good girl. “No, not yet. I'm just curious.”

            Myranda narrowed her eyes. As of saying _Just curious my ass_. She said instead, “Not _yet_? Girl, spill. Why do you _need_ to know?”

            Sansa clasped her hands beneath the table, a painful grip. Trying to hold onto the calmness the threatened to break under Myranda's watchful gaze. This might have been a terrible, foolish idea. The worst idea. Too late.

             “Nothing, Randa. When would I even have time to do things?” A laugh. Best to make it seem as genuine as possible. “I just… I've heard girls say it hurt and was curious if it did. And I know you've got a lot of experience.”

            A part of Sansa wanted to laugh. At how casual she created the illusion of innocence, when Petyr had done so much _worse_ to her. When Sansa had _allowed_ so much worse. Just yesterday she had him whip her with a belt – bruises lining her back and ass – because the pain made her feel alive. Made her forget about everything else for those quiet, blissful moments.

            But... Wasn't there something special about the first time a man and woman had sex? Her mother's words were muffled by her need as Sansa moved her body over Petyr's lap, his cock in her hands. _Don't give away your virginity to the first boy you see._ Sansa stroked him once, twice, the heavy feel of his blood a mirror to the thrum between her legs. _If you do, any man will take it as invitation to have you._ Slowly Sansa sank her legs down, until his cock was just kissing her lower lips.

            _Wouldn't your virginity be the sweetest gift for Joffrey?_

            Sansa stared at Petyr. A shadow held onto her heart. A thing she thought might have been _betrayal_ turning her insides into ice _._ And regret.

             “Who is it? That Jeffrey dude?”

            Myranda's words brought Sansa back to their dining hall, the constant echo of voices a bubble surrounding them. Brown eyes stared into Sansa, as if trying to read whatever was lurking beneath her.

             “Yeah.”

            Sansa didn’t even bother to correct Myranda. Of _course_ it was Joffrey she did all this for. Of _course_ it was Joffrey her heart and body yearned for. Except Sansa hadn't been thinking about the boy with soft golden curls and a smile that once made her swoon in class. As if she had _forgotten_. Now, and in her moment of unbidden lust yesterday. And before then, too.

            A cough to wipe away the images before she continued. “Yeah, and I was just wondering…is it really that special?”

            Myranda cocked her head to the side. “So, do you want to know if it _hurts_ , or if it's _special_?”

            _Crap_. “Um, both, I guess. Just… just curious.”

             “Of course.” Her friend twirled a lock of brown hair between her fingers, thinking. On her own experiences; on whether what Sansa was saying measured up to the Sansa that existed in her mind. If anything, that perfect facade she had created must have thin cracks lining around it. As long as it didn't shatter.

            Long seconds passed where Sansa wondered if Myranda was ever going to answer, or if maybe her friend had frozen in place with the sudden revelation that Sansa wasn't truly pure and good. Could she see the shadows and hunger beneath her mask? Sansa shrank into her seat.

             “Did I ever tell you about Thom?”

            Sansa licked her lips. “I don't remember. Was he someone you f– slept with?”

            Myranda's lip twitched, but she continued. “Yeah. I think he was freshman year, before you and me were friends. Don't remember if he was in architecture too, or not, but I met him at orientation.”

             “Okay.” _And?_ Sansa wanted to add, but bit her tongue.

             “I think he went missing the next day. Wait was it Thom? Yeah, I think. Anyway, he was a lousy lay, and I didn't even let him finish before I just walked out of there. Literally just shoving his dick in without knowing what to do, it didn't feel good _at all._ ”

            Myranda was always open about her conquests. It would be a surprise if Sansa pointed to anyone on campus and Myranda could say with confidence she _hadn’t_ slept with them before. So this candor between them wasn't unique. The details were rather lacking from usual.

            Only now with her own semblance of _experience_ Sansa couldn’t help but process the words rather than let them bounce off her. She didn't picture Myranda and the faceless Thom – she imagined herself and Petyr, in the various ways he’d had her without truly having her. The way her body felt weightless beneath his ministrations. The way her body was always aching for more. More pressure, more pain, more _everything_.

            The pain, she supposed, wasn't the issue. Petyr knew his way with his fingers and tongue (and cock, if the others were examples). And even though he knew little about Sansa besides what she willingly told him, it felt like Petyr _knew_ her. Knew where she was sensitive, knew what she liked and didn't. Only once so far he was majorly wrong.

            It was the other question that was plaguing her. The one that Petyr had left between them:

            Was she willing to completely give herself up for Petyr for the sake of being better for Joffrey?

             “Look, Sans, what I'm trying to say is that if the person you wanna fuck matters, then I guess yeah it'll be special. But honestly your first time isn't something magical. For a lot of girls it sucks cause they don't know what's what with their bodies. The guys usually just use the girls without getting them turned on so it hurts. You just need to make sure you make him – or her – tease you enough so it doesn't hurt. Cause then it feels fucking a-ma-zing. And if the person you're with can't fuck you till you forget your name, then they aren't worth it.”

            It took Sansa a moment to realize Myranda had finished talking. “I see.”

            Her friend lay a hand on hers, willing Sansa to stare into fiery eyes. “And if they do anything to hurt you, I'll fucking cut their dick off. Or their boobs if they’re a girl.”

            Sansa couldn't help but laugh. “You're too much, Randa, honestly.”

             “Oh, and Sansa?”

             “What?”

            Myranda was only smiling in that faux-innocent turn at her lips that captured the hearts of many men. Or their cocks, at least. “Don't forget to use a condom.”

* * *

            When she called up Petyr that night, she had been hoping for an escape from the hell that was spring break. Sansa couldn't remember the last time she was able to enjoy a week off from school. Third grade, maybe.

            Now she was swamped with drafting out the final project for studio with Myranda. They'd manage to narrow down their phenomenon to gravity or movement. The hardest would be trying to figure out how to convey it as a structure. There was also the paper for her history class, and studying for another midterm that the professor decided having the day after break was a good thing. The only solace in her statics class was being able to write her honest opinion of him at the end of the semester. And Sansa had more than enough anonymous words for him.

             “Sir?” she asked the moment Petyr had picked up. It wasn't too late in the day for Petyr to be asleep (for what job, she wasn't sure. Sansa had a hard time believing managing The Mockingbird took up all of his time, but she wasn't too up to speed with the business of sex). It also wasn't too early for Arya to wander in and overhear. Or see the angry lines that Sansa had applied salve to and were letting air dry. Her sister had (reluctantly) sent a _Heading home_ text five minutes ago.

            There was the sound of Petyr moving through rooms, a door closing behind him before he answered. “Hello sweetling. If you're asking whether you can come, I'm afraid that's still a no.”

            Sansa would be lying if hearing his voice did nothing to her.

             “No, Sir, although you'd be generous to allow me.” She wondered if there would be enough time to tease Petyr, or of she should get straight to the point. Sansa stared at her alarm clock, listened to the quiet sounds drifting in through her window. “If you want, I can get myself off while you pretend like you aren't rubbing yourself.”

            To say she learned nothing from Myranda would be a lie, too.

            There was a brief pause on the other end. When Petyr spoke, she thought it sounded heavier. She could hear the wicked smirk to his words. “Careful, sweetling, or I won't let you come even as I'm fucking you from behind.”

             “You haven't, yet.” Not let her come entirely. And not fucked her. She curled her toes on the carpet.

            Sansa kept going before he could reply. “There’s only a month left before the semester ends, Sir, and I was hoping we could expedite my lessons. I want to know everything, and since it's spring break this week I was hoping we could have extra lessons. To make up for your...business trip.”

            Petyr mulled it over. With a glass of something, she heard, ice tinkling as he took a sip. “That's true, sweetling. And as much as I would love to teach you each day until May, I'm afraid we'll have to stick to weekends.”

            Sansa wanted to ask _why_ – what did he do in his spare time. How did he became so good at the carnal pleasures. What drove him to owning such a wicked establishment. And so much more. He only divulged whatever scraps were necessary enough to prove that he was human. A human Sansa wanted to learn more about. But knowing Petyr only meant leaving him was going to hurt worse. So she chewed the question and spat it into the trash.

             “But,” he continued. “Perhaps this weekend we could do a long session.”

            Sansa didn't want to wait that long. Couldn't imagine waiting (even if she _had_ waited five agonizing weeks). Now that the ground between them was mostly stable, any sort of wait was terrible).

             “The whole weekend, Sir?” Thoughts of her statics midterm warred against the excitement.

             “It would give you the best opportunity to learn, yes.” A pause filled the air, one where Sansa could hear the heavy thrum of her heart echoing in the silence. She imagined Petyr licking his lips, thinking, debating. “And I was thinking you could sleep over. To eliminate the waste of you driving back and forth from King’s Landing, of course.”

            Only to save time on commute, she told herself. Only because he was kind, and he wanted to make up for the weeks they spent not learning. Only that, and nothing else.

            Not at all because he _cared_ for her.

             “Sounds great, Sir.”

            A sigh – of relief? He hid it beneath words: “Good. I look forward to seeing you. Would you be able to swing by Friday night? Say six or seven? And we could go from there.”

            Six wasn't early enough, she nearly blurted out. “Yes, Sir. I'll see you then.”

             “Great. Goodnight, Sansa.”

             “Goodnight, Petyr.”

            The door clicked open just as Sansa ended the call.

* * *

            He took her out for dinner again.

            It was just as spectacular as their first date (lesson?), near enough to Harrenhal that they wove their way back to The Mockingbird with a few hours left for learning. The venue was more old school than before, but the food just as extravagant on her tongue. Petyr again insisted she wear nothing beneath her dress, and Sansa obliged with a neckline that plunged between her breasts. It was a victory each time Petyr’s gaze fell and froze upon the expanse of her chest. Of which Sansa won more times than she could count.

            Sansa bit her lip in his car as the massive tower loomed beyond the highway, its deep shadow cutting a path across the open fields. If she said she wanted only to sleep and begin tomorrow, would Petyr think any different of her? Not necessarily because she didn't _want_ to learn – and more importantly, to address the ache that had clawed at her with demanding presses all through the night – but because she only hoped she would be good.

            Not perfect. Good – for herself and for him.

            If she could make Petyr smile at how good she was getting, that might make this weekend worth it. On top of all the orgasms, of course.

            Petyr parked and led Sansa into the tower through a separate door in the back. There was a party tonight, she could tell by the cluster of cars; and once outside, by the sounds filtering out into the night air. The staff entrance, Petyr said of the side door, although it seemed less like a service elevator and more a private thing.

            It definitely was private when the doors revealed an empty, quiet hall with a wall of windows overlooking the God's Eye. The lights were soft enough to let the dark beauty of the lake shine through. And beneath – a long drop to the ground below. The weight of the rest of the tower above them, the activities on the floors below. And in the middle, a quiet slice of solitude.

            Sansa let her fingers trail along the cool glass as she followed Petyr down the hall. There were two doors opposite the windows – one a bathroom, maybe, and probably a study? – before he gently pushed open a set of double doors.

            Her feet froze on the threshold.

            This was Petyr's personal room. Simple and clean – only containing what was necessary. A bed (big enough, with dark emerald sheets), a desk, two drawers, bookshelves, and doors leading to a private bathroom and a closet, most likely. The windows from the hall continued, wrapping around half of the curved room. On a clear day, he could see all of the south of Westeros – from Dorne up to King's Landing, and just the edge of the mountains of the Vale. As if he ruled all the kingdoms the light touched.

            So Petyr didn't live here. Which wasn't a strange thought, he must have a life outside of The Mockingbird. It only made that abyss of questions painfully obvious. Petyr wasn't anything but a stranger. Petyr wasn't someone who she should be feeling a _pull_ towards.

             “Don't be afraid, Sansa.”

            She turned her gaze towards him. Petyr was pouring himself a finger of amber-colored drink, and perhaps as an afterthought poured a second glass. He held it towards her as he took in a slow drag of the alcohol.

            Petyr stared at her for a few minutes, and she him, neither of them talking. No sounds from below found their way up into Petyr's personal floor. Except Sansa thought she could _feel_ the debauchery happening several stories below. As if it wound its way up through the stones themselves, creeping and spreading throughout every inch of the mile-high tower. Or: maybe the echoes of the nobles and servants who succumbed to dragon's fire. Both possibilities sent a shiver down Sansa's spine.

            She steeled herself before taking the first step in. The next, and the last before she reached to take the proffered glass. Sansa didn't let their fingers accidentally brush – she would have dropped and shattered the crystal.

            One two three – Sansa swallowed the drink in one gulp, hoping it would imbue magical courage. All it did was make her cough at the strong sting of it.

            Petyr chuckled. “Typically you're supposed to enjoy whiskey…”

            She wiped an errant drip from the corner of her mouth. She also didn't fail to notice that Petyr's gaze was caught by the action. As if itching to perform it himself, with thumb or lip. Sansa stretched out her empty glass in an unspoken ask for _Another_.

             “Your last one. Wouldn’t want you to be riotously drunk. And only if you promise to enjoy it this time. No use in rushing without letting the taste sink into you.”

            Sansa felt her face flush as Petyr gently poured another finger (a smaller one). There was a high probability that Petyr meant something _other than_ whiskey. There was a high probability that the alcohol was mixing with her nerves and making everything softer, warmer, to the point she wanted his words to be about enjoying the taste of her and not his drink.

            He smiled as he took another sip, as if saying _Why can't I enjoy both?_

            It had an earthy flavor, less like the vodka shots that Myranda once convinced her to have last semester after they finished all their finals. That was just plain _awful_. Whiskey was strong in a different way. Warmed it's way down her throat, into her veins and spread into every nook and cranny between muscles and bones.

            She remembered her father. How Robb and Jon had filched a bottle from his study and egged her to have a try before they snuck it back. She did – it was strong, not whiskey, but warmed her just the same. And they didn't – they had both earned an earful about irresponsibility and underage drinking. Thankfully they left their sister out of it.

            Sansa stared at Petyr as she slipped the final dregs of the amber. At the grey coiling with the black, heaviest at his temples. They were almost like wings, she thought. The lines at his eyes and cheeks. The easy way with which he stood, not menacing but not afraid. A quiet sort of power.

            Sometimes Petyr treated her with the kindness of a father. Encouraging words, soft touches to hair and cheek.

            And other times (most of the time), Petyr treated her as a lover.

             “Do you enjoy the taste?”

            She had been staring at his lips. Wondering – not for the first time – what they tasted like. The remainder of her own drink fell down her throat before she replied. “You're right, Petyr. It does tastes better when you go slower.”

            The corner of his mouth twitched. Gone, as he tipped the rest of his whiskey back. Sansa watched the column of his throat rise and fall with the action. Lower, to the brief expanse of skin peeking above the edge of the grey dress shirt. Around, to the join of his neck and shoulder. She wondered how long the mark she made there lasted. Wondered if he wore it with the same wicked pride of being consumed by someone else. Teasing its existence, holding back the screams.

            Sansa twirled the empty glass in her fingers as a font for nerves that were slowing ebbing away. “Any reason we’re up here and not below?”

            She thought she knew the answer, but the quietness was driving her nerves. Petyr set his crystal down, leaned against the sideboard. “I thought it would be easier to teach you without prying eyes and hands.”

             “And…?” she offered, not entirely sure she heard the trailing of his thoughts. Perhaps it was just hers.

             “And, because they aren't deserving of you.” Like a father, almost. Except: “However, if you would like, sweetling, I can take you to the main hall and have you beg and come for everyone to see. Or have you strapped to a hook for anyone’s use.”

            Sansa thought the glass might shatter in her grip. That or her fingers. “No thank you, Sir, I'd prefer if only you used me.”

            A feather of _something_ shadowed Petyr's expression. It might have crossed over hers. At the insinuation. At the knowing realization that _this_ between them wasn't going to last. At the knowing realization that both of them ignored that fact.

             “So,” she deflected, taking steps towards the window and gazing out. “May I ask what you've planned for me, Sir, or will you be keeping me on edge all weekend?”

            Petyr stayed where he was. “If you promise not to run were I to tell you.”

            It wasn't a threat, a simple statement of the way Sansa had acted before. She often forget to say what she was feeling, how everything was overwhelming her to the point of silence. That was definitely something she wanted to learn this weekend. Among others.

             “I promise, Sir.”

            He looked like he wanted to pour himself another drink but refrained. Did Petyr need the liquid courage as much as she did? Not likely. He wasn't fidgeting with his hands, didn't appear at all wary about how today and tomorrow would go.

            Unless he knew how to hide it so well he tricked even himself.

             “If you feel up to beginning tonight we can. Otherwise we can start tomorrow morning. Either way is okay, sweetling. And I promise, too, that no one will come up here. This floor is secure and private for my use only.” He meant for that to be reassuring – to say no one would wander in whilst she was asleep, perhaps. Were she not warmed by whiskey, Sansa might have caught the fear that knocked against her mind.

            He continued. “I would like to continue what you've already learned, the mannerisms especially. The way you carry yourself around your Dom is incredibly important. You did well at dinner, sweetling.” A small smile. “But also the physical lessons. Spankings and whippings, because you enjoy them. And you'll need to learn how to tolerate the clamps” – her breasts shied into herself – “though I admit the one on your clit was too much too soon. You can set it as a hard limit, or you can learn to tolerate them. We can focus on your nipples for now.”

             “Thank you, Sir.”

             “Did you enjoy when you were tied up?”

            A flush of warmth eased itself around her body at the memory. “Yes, Sir, very much.” She focused on the window and not the landscape beyond. Focused on the reflection of Petyr.

             “Good. I think you'll enjoy being blindfolded. And tied down. Both will heighten whatever your Dom chooses to do to you.”

            Sansa closed her eyes. Nodded.

             “Your words, sweetling.”

             “Yes, Sir, I think I would like that.”

            She let the soft lilt of his words float around her, caress their way into her ears and spread through her. “Then there's the special _skill_ of being able to get your Dom off with your hands and mouth.” _And cunt,_ she thought she heard him say in the pause. “Luckily Joffrey has a cock, too, or I'd need to get someone else to teach you.”

            Sansa felt the whiskey take hold of her voice. “I've already made you come twice, Sir, without much experience. I don't know if _I'm_ the one that needs lessons.”

            She saw the shadow of his reflection smile. “Anyone with a functioning cock would come just looking at you, sweetling. I'd have to be dead not to want to come inside that mouth.”

            Her blush was hidden from him. But her pause made Petyr know what he'd done, and he chuckled all the same.

             “There are other toys I think you would like,” he continued. “To help ease you into the type of play that Joffrey likes – and I can promise they will feel as good as anything that I've taught you so far. Well almost everything. You’d just need to practice.”

            There was a pause there, as if Petyr wanted Sansa to _beg_ to end the unknown. She wanted to, almost did, but decided against it. Better to not know and be surprised than to live with whatever sort of dread the knowledge would bring. “I look forward to them, Sir. And I trust you to know what I'll like, Petyr.”

            Trust was a heavy things to admit. Almost as heavy – or perhaps heavier – than an admission of _love._ She used his name only to reinforce the trust that was needed.

            Whether Petyr felt the weight of her words or not he didn't let it show. “We still have several weeks. You don't need to master everything this weekend, nor will we get to everything I think you should learn.”

             “Okay.”

             “As for the rest of our lessons… Well, I'm sure we could find _something_ to pass the time with.”

            She turned finally, a smile tugging at her lips, opening her eyes to see Petyr hadn't moved. His own smile had a decisively unkind tinge to it. The pads of Sansa's fingers pressed against the cool window. It felt colder. Or she was burning with alcohol and pent-up desire. “Would Sir like to see the marks you left last time?”

            The semblance of control over the conversation blinked away for a fraction as Petyr stumbled. Not visibly, nor physically. But Sansa caught the flicker of his own lust. Saw it in the way he licked lips that were suddenly dry. The way he clandestinely shifted his hips to hide his desire. Meanwhile Sansa's fingers itched to show him hers.

            Sansa didn't wait for a response – she would blame any earned punishments on the alcohol – as she teased the short hem of her dress up smooth thighs. She would blame the alcohol, yes, and the lingerie.

            The black lace and silk hugged her skin as gently as the white. But the inky blackness did something else – unhinged something dark within Sansa. A certain power that made her feel invincible. The cut was the same, but the stark contrast made what the fabric hid seem more lewd. Made even her own need thrum as she stared at herself in the mirror that morning.

            Sansa couldn't help but wonder which Petyr preferred. Assuming he preferred her with clothes on at all.

            The hardness he initially tried to hide away strained against the front of his slacks. Sansa didn't want to turn around and lose the sight of his rapt gaze upon her. As if there wasn't anything more beautiful in the entire world. As if he would die were he to look away – and he never would.

            A kind lie.

            She bunched the black dress at her stomach. Toyed with the lacey edging of the undergarment. Dipping it down barely a centimeter before releasing and finding purchase somewhere else. Never once letting Petyr see what he likely had unkind dreams about since their last encounter. All the while, his gaze was focused entirely on the movements of her finger. Anticipating when Sansa might give him _more_. Anticipating when she let the silk dip down over her hip bone, inching towards her core. And then she swiped the silk all the way down.

            He let out a disgruntled breath. Sansa smiled. No wonder Petyr enjoyed teasing her.

            A pity she was growing impatient with herself. She would have liked to see just how long she could keep Petyr waiting in agony as his cock begged him for something more than this simple tease.

            Slowly she turned her body, not wanting to lose sight of Petyr. Her wicked finger trailed along the edge of the lingerie, hooking beneath the fabric half-covering her ass. Except she didn't drag it down. A wicked thought had her finger dragging both sides up to reveal the soft pink lines where his belt fell.

            In the vast quietness between them, his breathy _Fuck_ echoed loudly.

             “A pity most have faded by now,” she trailed off. Sansa wondered if there was time enough to sneak down amidst the party to make use of the room where Petyr had strung her high and whipped her. Maybe he would growl all the partygoers to _Leave_ if she bat her eyes enough.

            The whiskey was a terrible thing that Good Sansa would shy away from. A good thing she was too far entrenched in its warm embrace to give a fuck.

            When she gazed back at him, Petyr was rubbing his aching bulge through the fabric of his pants. Not nearly fast enough (he showed the speed and pressure he preferred, something Sansa wanted to perfect. As a _gift_ for how clever his own fingers always were inside her cunt). Rubbing just enough to stave off whatever dark desires he likely kept at bay.

            Sansa dropped her dress, turning on a heel and heading (not towards Petyr, but) towards the bed. Ran fingers down the silky cover – somehow it felt softer than the silk that hugged her curves. Petyr loved soft things, she thought.

            The prodigal bed. Where sex _should_ happen, were Sansa not so far entwined in the sorts of pleasures that Petyr was kind enough to show her. Although she knew long before Petyr that sex could happen in a variety of places (and positions) thanks to Myranda's loose lips.

            Sansa held onto a post, leaned back against it as she surveyed the room. Then Petyr, who was still in his state of helplessness. So – as the good girl she was – she wanted to help.

             “Would Sir want me to use my hands again, or my mouth?”

            Petyr's hips buckled against the suggestion. With effort, he managed to release the hand upon himself, taking a few breaths to re-center himself. To remember (she thought) who was in charge.

            To punish Sansa (though more likely to _encourage_ her), he had her grab hold of the post as he ran hands over her body. As he had her count off the spanks he left on her. The ones that landed atop the belt marks stung deliciously. Sansa cried out with every strike, pushed back into him. She lied when she said she lost count so he could start over.

            Then he had her use both her hands and mouth on his cock, to _practice_ her much-needed skills. Sansa thrilled in every caught breath and moan she drew out of him. Every time he lost control for a second, body thrusting into her before his mind could rein back. He was always so calm, collected, never showing what beneath the visage he built up. Until Sansa held him, touched him, did Petyr’s stony mask collapse.

            Petyr stopped her before he came (he must have had his own masochist streak, never allowing himself to come despite the aching pressure it built). Sansa groaned in frustration as he wrenched her hand away.

             “Move your ass further down the bed and lie down,” he ordered, palming himself in slow strokes to ease the ache. Sansa wasn't sure it did anything useful aside from

            She moved as he asked, making sure to spread her legs enough to silently ask for what she craved. If only Sansa could read Petyr's mind, could know if he wanted to same.

            As a man, yes. The evidence was plain in his hand. In the shadowed gaze he kept directed at her. The lick of lips: hunger.

            As Petyr, though... She couldn't say.

            He climbed beside her, except his head was heading towards the her hips. Fingers toyed with the silk of her lingerie (her dress was long gone, discarded somewhere on the carpet), the bra bunched above her breasts and the panties tugged dangerously low on her hips. It was a surprise she wasn't completely naked yet.

            Petyr nipped at her hip bones, splaying fingers across her thighs. Pushing them further apart. He slid his hands around her thighs to clutch at her ass, to probe the new red marks he left with his hands. He hooked fingers in the fabric and slid it down just enough to give his mouth access to her cunt. A single kiss to her lips.

            He swung a leg on the other side of her head, his cock positioned above her mouth. She reached for it, gently stroking the underside with her nails. Petyr hissed into her clit.

            Sansa used her other hand to push his hips further down, giving her easier access with her tongue. It followed the same path from the base to the tip as her hand did. She didn’t allow her mouth to take him in until Petyr shoved his tongue into her folds.

            Below, there was a groan of _annoyance_ , quickly followed by the sound of fabric ripping. Sansa craned her head to see and feel the tear in the black lace.

             “Petyr-!” she began to protest.

             “I'll buy you another,” he cut her off with a moan, cut her off as he snaked a hand between her legs and sank it between her legs along with his tongue. Before plunging his cock back towards her mouth he grunted out, “I'll buy you a hundred, if it means you'll always wear them for me, sweetling.”

            It wasn't gentle, their fucking. There were moments it was, quick glimpses of the sort of love she once dreamed about. Those dreams were long gone, replaced with _this_ animalistic urge that coursed within her.

            They both came in a flurry of thrusting hips and muffled cries.

* * *

            Sansa lost track of her orgasms. They’d practice long into the night, with old and new lessons. She was thoroughly tired, and warm, and (despite herself) happy.

            If yesterday was only a taste, she couldn't wait for what Saturday would bring. Her tutoring program was on hold during spring break, and Myranda thankfully said she had some plans today and would rather get the final stuff done for studio tomorrow. They were almost done. Which meant they'd be down there till early in the morning Monday. Hopefully before class started.

            Sansa awoke to soft light prying between her eyelids. Blanketing her body in a wonderful golden warmth. There was a soreness, too, on her arms and legs that was a testament to how late they stayed awake. And the lingering scent of sex.

            She awoke, and not alone.

            Sansa felt the heat of his body long before she worked up the courage to open her eyes. Heard soft, slow breaths. Felt the dip in the mattress behind her.

            Petyr's arm was lying atop her waist in a loose embrace. He wasn't touching her elsewhere – his body far enough way to give a modicum of propriety (despite the fact she was _naked_ ) but close enough she felt the warmth of his skin seeping into hers.

            It was...intimate.

            It was Wrong.

            She swallowed a laugh. _Wrong_? How in the seven heavens and hells was a tender embrace _wrong_ , when just last night she had sucked his cock? She had begged for new marks across her ass? She said yes to new lessons and new levels of depravity that would shock even Myranda?

            Something wasn't wrong with the embrace. Something was wrong with _her_.

            A shudder swept down her spine.

            Sansa tested turning around. It sounded like Petyr was asleep, his breaths even. Degree by degree she turned, curious above anything what he looked like asleep. Vulnerable.

            Except he wasn't asleep.

             “Good morning, sweetling.”

            Sansa wouldn't have made the circuit around, his head was nested atop her wild curls splaying onto the pillows. She wondered if he slept with them beneath his cheek, inhaling whatever she smelled like.

            Now she stared into his face, into the softness that took over where the sternness usually was. He had moved his head to allow her to turn. He hadn't moved his arm. Not to release her from his grasp, nor to pull her tighter. Just there. Waiting.

            Sansa’s fingers itched to run along his arm, his chest, through his hair. She tamped it down as a voice screeched out _Wrong_.

            Besides, Petyr left his undershirt on. The dark grey silk of his dress shirt lay somewhere in a tangle with the rest of their clothes. Sansa remembered through the haze of her lust last night his reluctance to let her completely undress him. He addressed it as keeping himself in the position of Dom – of making Sansa more aware of her nakedness.

            Which she was now. But not as a sub, but as a person. She couldn't help but wonder if there was a different reason for it. “What would you like for breakfast, Sansa?”

            Was it breakfast? Must be, it didn't feel hot enough for it to be later.

            Petyr didn't appear fazed at all. Not in the blatantly obvious way Sansa was, with fingers itching to pull sheets in front of her chest, with eyes casting suspicion upon him. There were tells, small things that slipped through the cracks in his facade. Sansa searched for them. Wondered if his brain was screaming that mantra over and over, too: _wrong wrong wrong._

             “Will we be eating here or heading into town?” she asked.

            Petyr held a lock of her hair between his fingers. He was always marveling at it. The shade, the shape. Sansa wondered what he found so _fascinating_ about it. He smiled as he did it. It almost looked genuine. “Whichever. So long as you get plenty of energy for the lessons I've got planned.”

            Sansa in turn blushed. She hid it by traveling her fingers down the length fo the arm Petyr left draper over her. Annoyed and unsure when her fingers collided with fabric instead of skin.

            There was another level of _intimacy_ were they to have breakfast here (which was assuming there was a kitchen in the tower. She remembered a bar downstairs, but whether it was functional for food preparation she wasn't sure). Either way, her brain was still screaming _wrong_ at her.

             “I think I'd like to go out, Sir. Stretch my legs before you tie them down.”

            So they did. Sansa had nothing else to wear aside from her dress from last night, which was a little too fancy for the diner they went to in Lord Harroway’s Town, the nearest city that wasn’t more than a scatterd collection of fields and houses and gas stations. Sansa also didn't have undergarments to wear, given that: a), Petyr left a tear in the panties, something which she remembered with sadness; and b), she couldn't locate her bra (a thought that Petyr was hiding it for his own personal use, despite his shrug of _I don't know_ ).

            The diner was packed, but the owner was a kindly woman who cleared a booth for the two of them. She clapped a broad hand over Petyr's shoulders, a cheery laugh echoing above the din, as she left to get them coffee.

            Petyr, meanwhile, insisted that Sansa sit beside him instead of across. She did (dutifully), knowing full well the lingering shadow that existed in the tilt of his smile. It manifested itself in the soft trailing of knuckles against her thigh. Sansa clenched the edge of the seat, trying desperately to stay in control. To prove that whatever ministrations he performed – in _public –_ didn't affect her one bit.

            Only they did. Especially as his hand slid beneath her dress. Higher, higher until he slid a finger down the length of her.

             “If you make any noise, Sansa,” he breathed heavily into her ear. “I won't let you come at all today. Maybe even until I bid you farewell next month.”

            Sansa bit the inside of her mouth. Gripped the bench tighter.

            A pity it didn't help.

            The woman (whose name Sansa unfortunately didn’t catch thank to Petyr’s _distraction_ ) came to take their order. Which Petyr performed for both of them, with a finger firmly inside her cunt. Moving slowly, in, out. A languid exploration of a place he had explored and tasted far too often. Not often enough. Sansa tried to smile at the woman. To present herself perhaps as a colleague of Petyr. Or a daughter? Unless this was _normal_ for him to bring very innocent, very young girls for breakfast. She didn't seem bothered by Sansa's presence at all. An easy enough task to pretend that nothing was amiss below the table. Only Petyr pressed more insistently, practically _begging_ for the woman to catch them in the lewd act. Rubbed at her clit in a quick rhythm. Sansa bit down on her lip, turned a moan into a false cough. It was an effort not to roll her hips into his hand.

             “She isn't feeling well, I'm afraid,” Petyr said, waving his free hand.

             “Evil…” Sansa muttered when the woman left. The rest of her curse left unspoken.

            What _was_ evil was Petyr removing his fingers just as Sansa felt her orgasm beginning to culminate into a loss of sensibility. Her hips buckled of their own accord, taking over her brain in favor for the release. A release that never came. He licked slick fingers clean, never once removing his shadowed gaze.

             “If I could live off the taste of you...” he trailed off. Sansa stared at him, slowing her panting. Did he even realize what he was saying? The implication beneath his words -that _this_ would last longer than the prerequisite time?

            _Wrong_.

            Sansa ate her breakfast with trembling hands.

            It was still crowded as they left the diner.

            When they got back to The Mockingbird, Petyr escorted her out of his Jaguar and through the front doors. Perhaps breakfast was merely an excuse to wait for lingering partygoers to excuse themselves for home. Or for them to make up excuses for why they weren't with their families on an April Friday night. Sansa watched the employ of persons quietly clearing away the messes, righting furniture. Creating the vision of perfection.

             “Would you like to practice what I've already taught you, sweetling, or would you like to try something new?”

            She was in the process of removing her clothes, a feat made easier when half of it wasn't ever on. She did her best, too, not to worry about the other people working to clean up. Somehow a thought wormed its way that one of them would recognize her. That one of them would run North and tell her parents: _Your daughter isn't the sweet, innocent thing you said goodbye to_.

            They were too far from Winterfell for that. Right? Right.

            Most of all, she wanted to shut her brain off. “Would Sir be kind enough to spank me first before teaching me something new?”

            He did, stringing her up to the hook as he had before. The leather caressed and stung at her skin. Her cries echoed, her body pulled towards the whip. Although Petyr still didn't let her come, despite the number of _Please_ ’s she breathed, or _Oh gods_. A blessing – the pulsing ache kept her attention between her legs rather than inside her head.

            After applying careful attentionto the new set of red marks on her back and front, Petyr had Sansa crawl towards the private elevator, of which only Petyr had the key. She exaggerated her movements despite the pain that pulled at her muscles. That lingering revelation that, if needed, no one would come for her coiled around her chest. Until Petyr slapped her ass to move forward.

            He didn't follow her, though. “Crawl to the bed and lie down on it. I need to get some items first.”

            The doors closed between them and Sansa rode to the upper floor alone. The shadowy thoughts threatened inside her again, but she beat them back. She did as she was instructed. Did what she was told. Sansa was great at that.

            The sheets were still rumpled from last night. On them the scent of their sin. She was tempted to smooth them out, tuck the ends away into an imitation that nothing was amiss. But she didn't, and not just because she wasn't told not too. A hand ran down the dark silk. So smooth, and so imperfect.

            They were soft and cool against the redness that marked her body. A part of her wished Petyr had _hinted_ at whatever lesson he was going to teach now. Something new, she asked. Of which could be anything. There wasn't much time for Sansa to do _research_ (namely because when she got the urge she was somewhere where she shouldn't be thinking of wicked things, like in the middle of studio or during tutoring). This lifestyle was creeping into every waking moment of her life.

            Sansa stared out the massive window. She couldn't see much lying down. Only the vast expanse of sky littered with wispy clouds. April meant rain, although rain in the South was nothing like the cold, biting thing back home. And rain in King's Landing, frankly, was disgusting. She didn't want to think how much human refuse lining the narrow streets came back down.

            Summers, meanwhile, we're spent at home. In the welcoming embrace of cool breezes and family game nights.

            Would Joffrey expect to have her for the summer? She assumed he would be shadowing his grandfather, plans to take over his family business when Tywin succumbed to old age (or poisoning – he wasn’t a king man. A shrewd businessman). Would Sansa be with him all the while?

            She wanted to impress him. _Needed_ to. An ache crushed her heart – and she assumed it was from the anticipation of being his.

            Instead of Petyr's.

            The elevator doors _ping_ ed their approach. As if timed with her thoughts.

            Sansa stared at the ceiling, her arms above her head, one leg bent up. Head tilted towards the door. Eyes closed (but not really).

            She caught Petyr freeze in the doorway just as she leveled her breathing. His feet were so silent, all his movements precise. No wonder he’d snuck up on her several times before.

            Through near-closed lids, Sansa saw him stare at her. Take her form in, drink in the sight that Sansa prepared for him. Did he know she left herself vulnerable for this? For this fleeting moment of weakness before her? She drank it all in.

            Petyr cleared his throat long seconds later.

            Sansa thought she made a good impression of _waking up_ from an impromptu doze. Clearing the sleep from her eyes with the back of a hand, parting her legs as if not quite remembering she was naked and atop the bed of an almost stranger.

            She heard his breath hitch.

            She hid her smile.

             “I know how much you enjoyed being tied and whipped,” he began, no strain in his voice. Petyr had collected himself as if he hadn't caught Sansa in a moment of vulnerability. “I also know that you're a virgin, sweetling, so I'd like to give you the choice whether we do this today, this weekend, or in the weeks to come. Though it _needs_ to happen before you leave. Joffrey is...rather fond of it, and the sooner you learn the easier it will be for you with him.”

            Sansa collected her limbs as Petyr strode to the bed, sitting on the edge and lying the things atop of the rumbled sheets one at a time. She watched him, his fingers, the way he seemed unperturbed by it all. She stared too long at his fourth finger, wondering if a lighter ring of skin was a trick of the mind. It lay free of adornments. She tried to remember if she _had_ seen a ring circling it or not.

            When Petyr finished, he leaned back on one arm, the fingers inches away from where her knee sat tucked beneath the other. Even now, with everything that’s happened between them, the simple proximity felt illicit. Did it tug the same way within Petyr as it did her?

            She stared at each of them in turn. Three dissimilarly-shaped objects, but with an _obvious_ intention writ plainly in their form. “What are they for?” There was a terrible idea in her head already, thanks in part to the vivid pictures Myranda liked to paint during meals (getting Sansa to blush and choke on food was a hobby of her friend’s. Though to be fair, Harry blushed, too). They were worse the later in the night it got. Or the more alcohol she had. Sansa felt her muscles contract involuntarily.

            Petyr ran a finger of his free hand down the length of the one closest to him. It was sleek, thin, and as long as her hand. “Remind me, sweetling, how you used to masturbate.”

            Not a question. Sansa swirled the sheets beneath her fingers, bunched them up. “With my fingers, Sir. I’ve never used…things like these before.”

            He lifted the first one, holding it carefully with the tips of both hands. Inspecting it, as if he didn’t know what wicked machinations it was designed for. “Dildos are much more effective than fingers, sweetling. Different. Some people claim it’s better than a cock – but I suppose that’s up to the person.” A finger flicked a button on the base, and a low hum filled the air. She clenched her thighs together, the aching need that Petyr urged but never released throbbing. “Had I not ordered you not to come, I’d give you one for your own use.”

            Sansa felt heat rise into her cheeks. He flicked it off. Set it back next to the others. The one beside it was a fleshy replica of a cock, a little daunting if she was being honest.

            Petyr saw her gaze. “Sometimes to compensate for what a partner doesn’t have.” He caught whatever remark before it fell out of his mouth. “I won’t use _this_ one on you, though dildos come in all sorts of shapes and sizes depending on what you prefer. Many people – those not even in this lifestyle – enjoy the use of toys like these. Like everything else I’ve taught you, they only enhance the feel of your pleasure. Push it past whatever height you thought it couldn’t ever surpass.”

            Sansa had wanted more than his mouth or fingers, yes. But had hoped for the warm press of his cock inside her, not these. Unless Petyr was preparing her for his cock? That he knew she wasn’t ready yet, and wanted to ease her into it. That next week perhaps they would finally have sex. ( _Don’t forget a condom_ , Myranda’s smirking words echoed). Joffrey would expect her to know how to do it, she thought.

            Before her lessons were through, she would ask him. Beg him.

            There wasn’t a chance Petyr would say no.

            So Sansa eyed the smallest of the three. It seemed…innocuous. Which meant it was the worst. Probably. She grabbed it, turned it between her fingers. Closed her hand completely around it. It was small, cold. Glass, unlike the others. And not cock-shaped: almost like a teardrop, with soft edges and a flat base. When she lifted her gaze at him, Sansa saw something dark in Petyr’s.

            “I should let you know, sweetling, that that one isn’t meant for your cunt.”

            Sansa’s grip tightened over the glass. Loosened. Unsure where her interest lay in _that_. She thought back to the day where he brought out the clamps. Three, too. One simple; one just terrible enough; and one he knew she would never be able to handle. To scare Sansa? To show her what was in store?    

            She winced at remembering that future lessons would include those. Unless she asked not to.

            “If you don’t feel comfortable doing this now, use your safe word and we’ll postpone it. But just know that if you keep pushing back this lesson, you won’t have the liberty to learn it before Joffrey _expects_ it of you.”

            Sansa remembered one of Myranda’s one-night-stands. It was after they presented their final project winter semester, she thought. They went out as a class for dinner, drinks, and a raucous bout of karaoke. Except Myranda never made it to the karaoke lounge. On their way there from the bar, they ran into a pair of older men (not _old_ , perhaps grad students? Or freshly out of college. Though it was hard to say in the dim alcohol-induced light). They got one look down Myranda’s loose shirt, their eyes hungry, and Sansa waved her friend goodbye with a promise to call her in an hour to check in. She did, picking her up from the men’s apartment several blocks away.

            “Men love it,” the brown-haired girl said, her legs draped over the sofa in Sansa’s apartment. Her words were still slurred, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and the lingering waves of her bliss. “Bit odd the first time, yeah. But honestly, they were so good at it. Some guys aren’t, but… Fuck, Sansa, it’s fucking good shit.”

            Four months ago, Sansa blushed and cringed away at her friend’s story. Now…

            Everything Petyr had done was _right_. Surely he wouldn’t be one of the guys that would hurt her.

            Over and over she rolled the glass shape in her hands. It was warm now. “I think I can do it, Sir.”

            “Because of Joffrey?” Petyr bit the inside of his cheek. As if the words tumbled out before his mind could tell them not to. Sansa stared at him, trying to tell whether or not they were said out of uncertainty or spite or something else.

            But he wasn’t wrong. “Yes, Sir. I want to make sure I’m perf– I want to make sure I’m as good as I can be for him.”

            Petyr kept gnawing at the inside of his mouth, holding back whatever retort he was planning to say regarding that. There was something…different about him this weekend? Kinder, yes, but also desperate for something. Sansa thought to ask – but again, that would tread too close to a level of interest in the other that would make it harder to say goodbye in a month.

            “I’ve heard it can hurt,” she said, reeling her mind away.

            Petyr watched her movements. “Yes, it can, especially if you approach it unprepared.”

            “Then you’d best teach me now.” If Joffrey wanted her to know this, then she would.

            There was a flicker of pride? on Petyr’s face at her assertion, she thought. And that flicker of sadness. Gone, as Petyr nodded.

            On his other side of his body, he lifted a bottle of clear liquid. Rolled between his hands. “Are you sure, sweetling?”

            Sansa nodded, handing over the glass figure.

            Petyr weighed it, twirled it, thinking. If he was worried about Sansa divulging into this sort of _thing_ then why had he brought it in the first place?

            Only the moment of doubt was gone a second later as he asked, “Would you like to be tied down for this?”

            Sansa thought on it. On the fear that hadn’t subsided once she realized where that thing would go. Even after Myranda’s assertion that it could feel good. Or Petyr’s guidance that he would take it slow. Still – she didn’t want to back out. Might be easier with a little bit of coercion in the form of not being able to run. Finally, she nodded.

            Petyr had Sansa kneel in the center of the bed, arms splaying towards the posts at the head. With a pair of leather cuffs and lengths of nylon (both of which he had brought with him before, as if anticipating that Sansa would chose this. Or because he simply didn’t want to waste time going back down for them). It was similar to the hook she was tied to earlier: the ease of not having to worry about her body. Only the feel of the whip across her skin, the ache between her legs. It was a beautiful thing to _let go_.

            “I won’t be tying your legs this time, sweetling,” he said, as if it was a kindness. Sansa couldn’t help but think if it would be better to let herself completely go, to not have to worry about where her feet should be or having to keep legs spread apart. But a further thought: that it was safety. That Sansa would be able, with her mouth and body, to tell him _no_.

            She couldn’t deny the slivers of fear that slithered inside of her. The shreds of hope that it wasn’t at all as terrible as she heard whispers of. An image of a sweet smirk beneath brown-curls kept her heartbeat at a decent tempo.

            Sansa felt the mattress dip behind her. Looking between her legs, she saw Petyr’s, the bottle of lube placed beside his thigh. Angled his own legs to match hers, and between them a faint shadow of his arousal. If anything, Sansa would do this because it turned on Petyr. Then correction: because it turned on Joffrey.

 _Remember your safe word_ , she told herself. _Remember it's okay to give up_.

            “I’m going to lick you first. Then I’ll put in a finger. If it’s at all terrible, you _need_ to let me know. If you can’t handle this, it's fine. I don't feel comfortable putting the plug into you.”

            He placed a warm palm against her ass. Ran a thumb down one of the new lines where the leather had licked across her skin. Sansa pushed back into the gentleness. It was odd: the softness with which he applied over the harshness she had begged for. Dual-sided, like the mask she wore. The softness of her smiles and wide eyes. The harshness of the woman that lay beneath, quiet, waiting for the opportunity to reveal herself. Only for Petyr did Sansa let herself go like that.

            A wicked secret they shared in the tower filled with the ghosts of wicked cries.

            Petyr was waiting. For her assent to let him do this. His hand didn’t stop its slow motions upon her. Nor did his words stop echoing in her mind that she needn't push herself if it didn't feel good. Sansa took in a deep breath. Let it out. Fingers reached for the rope tying her to the bed, clutching it. The edge of the leather dug into her wrists. A part of her wished for a different sort of pain to distract her from the oncoming one.

             “I’m ready, Sir.”

            Petyr spread her cheeks apart with both hands. With the gentleness he sometimes showed, he kissed around her anus, before placing the tip of his tongue inside it. Sansa curled her toes, clenched her muscles at the unusual intrusion. He in turn gripped her ass, pulled her into him as if to say _Stop fighting_.

            His tongue was gone a few seconds later. In the silence was the vile squirt of the liquid onto his finger. Sansa’s body moved forward at the sound, the muscles of her ass clenching tighter as if sensing malice. Perhaps she should listen to it and release a _halt_ before it begins.

            His hand moved up to the small of her back, pulling her body towards him. Fingertips dug into her skin, one lying just atop a nasty welt. Sansa gasped. Petyr rested his other hand on the meat of her ass, kneading it. Preparing her like he did with the whippings. “Spread your legs further, sweetling.” She did. “Good. You have to release your muscles or it won’t feel good.”

            Exactly like the spanking. (And the clamps, she remembered begrudgingly). Seconds that felt like minutes passed before Sansa managed to convince her body that it was going to be okay. Slowly, she released her breath, her muscles. Everything except for the rope digging into her fingers. A tether to her sanity.

            Petyr dragged a finger from one cheek to the other, trailing a red line he  had made. Back, only this time he stopped between them. Pried her apart with a gentle “Relax, sweetling.” The lilt of his voice did soothe the tightness in her muscles, just a bit.

            That finger found its way between her legs. Another ran along her cunt, dipping into the wetness that Petyr never allowed to come to fruition. Sansa arched back into the familiar motions, a moan building on her throat.

             “I'm going to press in now.”

            He continued his slow ministrations against her cunt, continued holding her in place with his other hand, as Sansa felt the foreign press of a finger against her anus. She bit her lip. Slowly he slid it in her. It was...it wasn't like his fingers pressing into her cunt, that’s for sure. Unpleasant only because her ass was unused to items entering. Sansa felt her body fighting against the intrusion. _Relax_.

            Just as slowly (how long had it been really? A handful of seconds, perhaps), Petyr’s finger was gone. “How are you feeling, Sansa?” He punctuated the question with a long drag down her cunt.

            Sansa opened her eyes. She didn't remember closing them. Or the aching in her jaw from the anticipation. “It's...different, Sir.” Deft fingers found her clit, flicked it, before resuming their slow, simple pace. “It doesn't hurt yet, Sir, but…”

             “But?” Petyr stopped moving inside her. Urging Sansa to elaborate if she wanted more.

             “But, I… I'm not sure I can take your cock. Not yet.”

            The fingers on her back pressed harder. _Men like it,_ Myranda teased. Petyr wasn't an exception so far to the sorts of things men liked.

            She thought she heard a smile on his lips (definitely heard the squirt of more lube applied) as he said, “I'm going to go in further. Are you ready?”

            Sansa nodded. Then remembered her manners. “Yes, Sir.”

            She realized now that the first time, Petyr hardly went further than the first knuckle. Sansa felt the bone against the lip of her hole, then the rest of the finger. She realized, too, she was biting her lip.

            Further and further he went, other fingers not giving up their distracting movements inside her cunt, atop the small of her back. Petyr said something – “Are you okay?”, maybe – to which Sansa managed a “Fine.”

            Not the question he asked. She felt the ridge of his second knuckle now, the rest of Petyr’s finger sliding into her until finally she felt the base of his hand against her ass. A thumb kneaded her flesh in small circles. An unspoken _Congratulations,_ she thought.

            Again, slowly, he pulled out. When it was gone, he left a nipping kiss on her ass. “Good job, sweetling.”

            Sansa beamed into the sheets.

            To reward her, Petyr kicked her legs further apart, reaching across her skin with his free hand and working to build up the awaiting orgasm that he had so unkindly never let Sansa release. She thought he would do the same, and Sansa rolled her hips against him. Hoping to come before he realized she was close.

            Somehow Petyr _knew_.

             “If you come, sweetling, your lessons are over for today.”

            Sansa buckled against his fingers, which he had had stopped moving. Hadn't removed them from between her legs, from inside her.

            A test, then. Between Sansa's desire to learn and please, and her desire to finally feel the warm waves of her pleasure coarse through her and ease the voices in her mind.

            Reluctantly, Sansa rose her hips away from the orgasm that she so desperately craved. Except she hadn't quite earned it yet.

             “Good, sweetling,” Petyr said, as if answering her unspoken revelation. As if he _always_ knew what lay unspoken on her tongue.

            A minute passed as she counted her heartbeats and waited for her breathing to slow. Waited for her mind to come back. If she hadn't _earned_ her orgasm yet, perhaps she could convince Petyr to _forget_ about that.

            Sansa raised her ass higher, her back bowing beneath the exaggerated effort. The ropes tugged lightly at the cuffs – a _delectable_ image of submission, Sansa thought. She tilted her head, peering through wild auburn trusses that stuck to the sweat beading on her forehead. A completely innocent smile fell upon her lips, to hide the completely wicked words she let fall:

             “Would Sir please fuck me?”

            She wished she could capture Petyr's reaction. The way his eyes widened, the feathering of his jaw as he bit back words or a groan. The way his hands – that had rested so calmly, so unmoving atop her hips – jerked her into his of their own desire.

            It was fun making him lose control. Fun seeing the man that existed beneath Petyr's own mask.

            Sansa let her wickedness shine in her eyes. “Please?”

            Through his fingertips, she felt Petyr's heartbeat thrum against her skin, sink into it, winding its way through her own veins to see whether Sansa's heart beat as wildly as his. It did.

             “Perhaps,” was all he said. A single fragment of thoughts that Petyr was vocally trying to piece together.

            He finally found sense of them, moving his fingers against her skin without realizing it. The typically casual, soft touches were rougher now. “After this lesson – if I think you've been good and have earned it – then yes, sweetling. I may fuck you.”

            Except (so Sansa was led to believe on their various lessons), Petyr always thought Sansa earned it.

            He coughed away whatever lingering shadows coiled vile words in his throat. “I'm going to use two fingers this time, sweetling. I don't think you'll be ready today for the plug, especially since you've never had anything more than fingers in either hole. Next time you'll get better acquainted with the feeling. And you'll thank me for taking it slow.”

             “Thank you, Sir,” she said in advance. She could never forget her manners.

            Petyr gave her several moments to collect herself, awaiting her assent before pressing two lubed fingers against and in her anus. She scrunched the sheets beneath her face, biting them as again that unusual mix of discomfort and intrigue plagued her. It wasn't enough to quiet the voices yelling at her that it should _stop_. It was barely enough when Petyr resumed his ministrations along her cunt with his free hand, pressing his thighs against Sansa's to keep her body in place.

            When he was halfway, Petyr paused and asked Sansa how she felt. He had to stop toying with her cunt to get a clear answer of: “Fine but still an odd sensation.” It was just _odd_. And uncomfortable. But not completely terrible, as she thought.

            To which Petyr mitigated by leaning over to bite her back. Graze teeth down the ridge of her spine. Sansa focused on the pain of Petyr's mouth rather than his fingers.

            Afterwards, when he finally deemed her ready for the plug (and bigger), Sansa would thank the gods for Petyr’s kindness in giving her time to adjust.

            But there was something else glimmering faintly beneath the wild shadows lining Petyr's face. Something...not quite as dark. Sansa stared at it while Petyr wiped away the mess with a damp cloth and left it over her ass to sooth away the burn.

            Sadness? No, not quite. Disappointment? But why, when she had successfully completed the lesson? Something else, always something else...

            Gods, she wished she knew what he was thinking.

            It was gone as Petyr ducked beneath her to lick a line down her lower lips. Hands pulled her thighs down onto his face. Fingers kneaded her skin, only flesh upon flesh. Not at all claiming or rough as he usually was. Not at all rushing Sansa to her orgasm – only to hold it against her as he continued lapping and biting and marking.

            Sansa knew she wasn't going to come, but she couldn't stop her hips rolling against Petyr's face.

            Her body buckled. Her mind free of any thought other than the base need to chase her orgasm. She spread her thighs further, moved faster and faster.

            Fought against Petyr's hands that pushed her body away from his mouth.

            Sansa whined. Petyr trailed a finger around her hip and between her wet folds, a low chuckle erupting from his mouth. “Not yet, sweetling.”

            Sansa bunched her fists in the sheets, trying and failing to dispel the sudden disappointment as her body was yanked from its release. Again. She thought she might die if she didn’t finally come. It felt like forever before her breathing slowed enough to hear anything else but her heart. And her heart was moments away from shattering through her chest.

             “I think it'd be best to teach you the _technique_ of fucking before I do.” Which was all well and good – only Sansa couldn’t help but wonder why Petyr kept prolonging something he _knew_ Sansa wanted, heard her begging for. Why he prolonged something that had to feel fucking amazing for him.

            Oh, that’s right: because of Joffrey.

             “Fucking hells…” she breathed.

             “What was that, sweetling?”

            Red hot embarrassment steamed against ice blood in her veins. She hadn’t meant for it to be aimed at Petyr, except his reluctance made it seem that way. She bit her lip. What was it about being here, with Petyr, that made her forget all her ladylike pleasantries? “Nothing, Sir. Thank you so very much for your absolute kindness.”

            He slapped her ass. “Little too much sugarcoat.” Rubbed over the sudden stinging. “Don't make it a habit of talking back to your Dom unless you know they won't punish you for it.”

            Sansa pushed back into his hand. “Does Sir like it when I talk back to him?”

             “I don't mind so long as it’s playful. But I'm not your Dom.”

            Another painful reminder. Painful? That was the feeling inside her, clutching at her heart.

            Why _painful_?

             “How are your wrists?”

            Sansa shrugged. “They're fine, Sir.”

             “Good. Would you like to keep them on or off during your next lesson?”

            Sansa thought on it. There was something wonderful about being restricted, about not having to think and let her body take over. Only this lesson wasn't at all about letting Petyr do whatever he pleased to get her off. She'd need to learn. And finally release the orgasm that kept her body aching and alert to any simple touch. Might be easier to _convince_ Petyr if she had hands. “I'd like them off for this, Sir.”

             “Okay. Move higher on the bed and kneel back, legs apart.”

            She did as she was told as Petyr undid the fastenings of the cuffs, rubbing her wrists to draw the blood back into her fingers. Afterwards, he placed her hands on the backboard. Sansa meanwhile stared out the window as Petyr worked. It was still gloriously bright outside. Several hours until she'd need to head back. Sansa didn't let the troublesome thoughts of school or tutoring or any of that ruin the day and a half she spent in the heart of depravity. A wonderful silence filled the spaces of her mind that were too often plagued with responsibilities.

             “Lift your left leg.”

            Sansa was still looking outside, her leg moving on its own. Petyr didn't tell her to lower it – he moved it in place with his hand.

            Sansa looked at him now, lying beneath her, between her kneeled legs. He ran his hand from her thigh up, holding her breast in a light grip. Toyed with the nipple, capturing it between thumb and finger and pinched it. His other hand rested on her thigh.

             “I want you to ride me, sweetling. See what feels good for you.” He pinched tighter, not enough to hurt yet. Not enough to bring back the fear of what happened last time. “That way you'll be able to bewitch your Dom to give you whatever you want when they're fucking you. Remember, Sansa: you’re the one with all the power here.”

            Did he mean that because he was _already_ bewitched? Obviously. But how deep did her spell dig inside him?

            Not enough.

            Sansa adjusted her grip on the wooden backboard, flexing her fingers. Below, Petyr stared back at her. His own hands moved across her skin, feeling her, exploring every dip and rise as if he was blind and searching for the way home. As if he never felt Sansa before. Or as if he never would again.

             “You may ride the length of my cock, but you aren't allowed to sink into it. Another lesson of your restraint,” he added with a smile. And an unspoken agreement that there would be punishment should she break his rule.

            Sansa only hoped she came long before the urge to press him deep inside overcame her.

             “You may start by pulling out my cock.”

            Her eyes darted down to the bulge in his pants. It was inches below her apex. She licked her lips. Lowered her hands from the frame, down to tangle in his hair as she nipped at his jaw, his neck. She wanted to bite his lips, taste them but when she tried last night Petyr shied away. So she made up for this unknown need everywhere else.

            As she worked on placing a mark on his neck – darker, this time, one that would last longer – she untangled her fingers and slid them down his chest, wondering what it would feel like to have skin on skin. Needing that contact. Digits reached the hem of his rumpled shirt, prying it an inch up. Another inch.

            A hand flew up to grasp hers. His other urged her head up with fingers lost in her curls. “My cock, sweetling.” It wasn't filled with venom. A warning, perhaps.

            Sansa nodded, forgetting her mission of knowing _why_ Petyr was adamant about leaving his shirt on. Was there something disfigured about his chest? A gaping hole. Burn marks. Something worse.

            She couldn't stop imagining the possibilities as she resumed her own fingers’ course down to the front of his pants. Running down the side through fabric. Petyr hissed.

            The zipper fell apart tooth by tooth. It was torture, waiting. It was torture for Petyr too. His chest was heaving with the strain of not taking back control, she thought. Of becoming willing to whatever Sansa did.

            Out of _kindness_ , Sansa stroked down the length with the same pressure he taught her. Lightly scratching with nails. Never once picking up the pace. But always keeping her attention on the way Petyr reacted to her touch. She thought about taking him in her mouth, but her jaw was still sore from the last time. Her throat, too.

            Petyr didn't say anything else as she worked. His breathing came out shorter, the grip in her hair tighter. His other hand rested on her thigh, fingers digging into her soft skin. Sansa pushed back against it. Wanting the indents of his need to linger on her skin long after she went back to the doldrums of reality.

            When her wrist started to ache (being bound earlier not helping, either), Sansa rested the flats of her palms on Petyr’s chest. Petyr understood what she was doing, releasing her hair and finding twin purchase on her other hip.

            Sansa angled her legs a bit higher so her cunt was directly above his cock. Spread her legs slowly, sinking herself down onto him.

            When she connected, both of them let loose a sigh of _Gods finally_.

            Sansa didn't have the restraint as she did while working on Petyr's cock with her hand to work herself slowly up and down the length of him. Her hands looked for purchase, looked for a way to grab on and _pull_ Petyr towards her.

            Every roll of her hips up his cock, Petyr thrust his hips against her. Teasing Sansa, the head brushing between her folds as he did. Each time, a wicked thought told her to succumb to his taunts and sink onto him completely. To feel the way his cock would spread her, fill her, consume her. To endure whatever lashes of punishment just for that blissful moment of riding his cock.

            It was an effort to fight against that urge.

            The air was filled with their moans, punctuated with the short _thwack_ of the posts smacking into the wall with each thrust.

            When her arms and hips shuddered with the weight of fighting back her orgasm, Petyr grunted out, “Come for me, sweetling.” Punctuated by the hard grip on her hips, pushing Sansa down onto his cock.

            She did. Her hands tangled in his shirt, her head falling with a cry into the crook of his neck. Sansa didn’t have the energy to ride him any more as he body succumbed to the overwhelming bliss. Petyr, thankfully, kept thrusting the length of him against her cunt.

            His grip was harder, painful, pulling her into him as he worked the final strokes to his own orgasm.

            They collapsed into a heaving mess of panting breaths and aching limbs. Sansa felt sleep pull her into its embrace, not wanting to do anything else but live in the moment after that fucking good orgasm. And it felt so much better with the hours of waiting – even if being denied was awful.

            She might have dozed off, it was hard to say. Sansa’s breathing came down. Against her ear she could feel and hear Petyr’s heartbeat.

             “Thank you, Petyr,” she said, not because she was prompted but because she wanted to say it. Because gods it felt _good_. Because gods she wasn't sure she would stand up alive after they finally _did_ have sex. Which was something she was certain, now, would happen.

            And to get in her thanks before she had to say goodbye.

            Neither of them moved long after they came. Enjoying the heat that wound between them, welded them together into a single creature with a thunderous heart.

             “If you personified yourself as an animal which would you choose?”

            Sansa lifted her head from his chest to stare at him. Petyr was staring with only his head – his eyes were far away. The sudden question lingered in the air without further explanation. “Why do you ask?”

            Finally Petyr came back to reality, a brightness filling the edges of his gaze. “There's an...event I'd like to take you to, Sansa. In the beginning of May. You can take it as a sort of farewell to our acquaintanceship.”

            Sansa caught herself running circles on his chest. Her skin dangerously close to an open wound in his shirt. In the throes of her release, Sansa had ripped a button off. She was dangerously close to satisfying the questions she knew would be impolite to ask. Especially since – as Petyr put it – whatever this was was going to end soon. No point in getting attached now. “If I can fit it around my finals, then yes, it sounds fun.”

            Petyr smiled. His own fingers had been busy, tangling themselves in her mussed hair. “I hope you can fit it in.” The party, and something else.

             “What's this about animals though?”

            His eyes darted to the window for a moment, then back. It wasn't sunset yet, but Sansa could see the beginnings of golds and oranges bouncing off the room. “It's a masquerade, apparently. So I’d need to get you a mask.”

            Sansa didn’t take long to reply: “A wolf.” In memory of Lady, whose body Sansa clutched tightly, long after the beast’s blood ran cold. Her father needed help to pry Sansa from Lady. She had only been thirteen when her wolf was murdered. She had only been thirteen when a small part of her burned away with the funeral pyre they held for her wolf.

            Petyr cocked his head, surprised maybe at her choice. There _was_ surprise there, and again that unfamiliar flash of something else. “Interesting.”

             “Why? What did you think I'd pick?”

            He shrugged. “Something less...vicious.”

            Sansa's fingers stopped. Fighting words clawed up her throat to defend Lady, and her family's heritage. _Vicious_ wasn’t the kindest way to describe the noble beasts. The animals that had protected her and her siblings for years. Only, saying as such would reveal far too much about her past. Not to mention the tears that were already threatening to push their way out. Biting them back, Sansa instead asked, “What about you?”

            He tried to hide a smirk and failed. “It’s a little obvious, don't you think?”

            It was. Sansa tried to picture a mockingbird mask, gilded in silver and gold and jewels with shimmering feathers. Or maybe something sleek, a black assumption of a bird. A silhouette like the kind that shadowed that faded business card that started this all.

            Either way, Sansa couldn't deny she was excited. And sad. And confused. So much of everything that she didn't know what to say, or how to broach the looming beast of how exactly they were to end these lessons.

            Would they go to this party, and say goodbye at the end? Would they cut each other off entirely, these months noting but a fleeting memory of _Remember when…_

            Sansa focused back into reality. Golden streaks of light fell on the edge of the bed, creeping towards their mass of tangled limbs. She stared at Petyr, fully. At the mossy grey eyes. The rumpled curls of black and grey. The pink and bruised lips that had done innumerous vile things to her, said equally wicked things. And yet never once provided her a simple kiss to her own. A soft, unspoken promise of _love_.

            Her chest ached. And Sansa wished she knew why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thanks for sticking with this waaaaaay too long chapter! I hope you liked it!!! :D
> 
> I'm really excited to write the next one, which should defo be a reasonable length B) ]


	9. lesson 8: torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I say this every time, but seriously guys I love you all soooooooooo much!!!! You guys are so awesome! :D
> 
> All I'm going to say is I've been looking forward to writing this chapter since I came up with this fic idea. I really hope y'all like it!!!]

 

            Sansa lifted the boxes with care, closing the front door with a foot. She didn't even hear whoever delivered it, didn't see anyone down the hall or over the railing. All she got was a simple text from Petyr: _I've left a present for you, sweetling. I look forward to seeing you wear them_. She was nervous, yes, about whatever the _present_ was. And about the party, being able to lie to her friends and family. And what tonight meant for this thing between her and Petyr. So many nerves coiling inside of her. But Sansa was also completely excited.

            A pity her sister and her not-boyfriend were studying on the couch. For some reason, the chemistry professors at the school thought it good practice to have a midterm the week before finals. Sansa shuddered, remembering how she hated that class. How she cried tears of joy at the high C (which she never told her parents about).

            A pity Myranda was here, too, foam core scraps and snack wrappers littering the kitchen table. Their model was drying half-complete on the floor. They were going to head down studio later to plot all their sheets. Another hour or two. They didn't feel like finishing all their work in that depressing place when it was such a nice day outside.

            Sansa sprinted for her room with the boxes, hoping they didn't see the massive thing. They did, of course, all three of them calling out “What's that?” as she rushed to her room and closed the door. Back to it, Sansa tried to come up with an excuse. What could she have ordered a week and a half before the semester was over?

            Stuffing it beneath clothes in her closet, Sansa didn't have anything good other than _Don't worry about it_. Which – Arya being Arya and Myranda being Myranda – meant they would.

            Luckily they were all too invested in getting their stuff done that the boxes were forgotten when she came back in the room.

             “Did it finish rendering yet?” she asked.

            Myranda glanced at her laptop, shook her head, and went back to work. She was tracing shapes with an xacto. Tracing them mostly perfect. Sansa would have liked to cut all the pieces herself. Knew if she did they would get the best comments for their craft. Except they didn't have time anymore to worry about that when nothing was done and it was nearing midnight.

            Sansa flicked a piece of stray foam out of brown curls tied loosely in a bun before going to make another pot of coffee. She stole a forkful of cold noodles they ordered at five while the coffee simmered. Sansa only hoped they didn't need to order another meal. Which happened to her once: at four in the morning with the project not at all done. It was second semester freshman year. She was partnered with someone who had already planned to drop architecture for something easier, and left Sansa alone to finish it by herself. Sansa thought she was going to pass out during her presentation.

            Her mind drifted back to the boxes. One large and flat, the other a square nearly the size of her head. She knew what was in the, for the most part. Nothing of particular – he liked keeping her in suspense. She smiled at the thought of Petyr putting in a little something _extra_ for her.

            Myranda, meanwhile, said little about their relationship. She admitted eventually to stalking Joffrey’s social media to see if she could prove Sansa was with him (and they were fucking. Myranda said she _knew_ the way someone who was getting some looked. Except it was hard to tell with Joffrey – he always carried a sure smirk to him. Which was good. Sansa wasn't sure what she would do if she found out Jffrey already _had_ someone. Which, she realized, was a foolish mistake).

            But Myranda continued to tell her friend _hints_ as clandestinely as she could. Which wasn't at all. Sansa brushed them off with constant excuses of _just interested,_ and then using them as bravery fodder for the weekend.

            The reason why they hadn't finished their project yet. Sansa _mysteriously_ was busy every Saturday, all day. If Myranda caught on, she had the decency not to shout it in public. And had the surprising kindness to let Sansa come out with the truth, instead of trying to pry it out of her with more force than normal.

            _Ping_. Sansa checked her phone. A picture from Harry trapped in studio, captioned “I hope I get to sleep tonight :///”

            She replied: “Shouldn't have changed your phenomenon at the last minute”

            Harry: “Not my fault Olenna shat on all of our ideas!!! She hates me I swear.”

            Sansa laughed. “As long as you pass right?”

            Harry: “I guess……. How you guys doing?”

            Sansa looked over to the mess on the table. “Good, but still have a lot to do.”

            Harry: “Hooray for not sleeping”

            Sansa: “Lol good luck.”

            Harry: “Same.”

            She set two steaming cups of coffee with milk and sugar on the counter, not at all daring to have them anywhere near their project. She thought she might actually die if one of those spilled coffee all over their foam. Or worse: over their laptops. Sansa rushed to backup the finished renderings and documents just in case.

             “Glue.” Myranda tossed the cut foam to Sansa, who carefully glued it to the rest of their model. When they came up with their design of a structure being pulled and ripped apart by the effects of gravity, they didn't at all realize how much it would be a pain in the ass to make. But if they could get it to work… The night was still young after all.

             “Coffee?”

            Myranda stretched her fingers. Her sigh filled with desire as she drank. Gendry coughed at the improper sound. The mug slammed on a blank space on the table, empty. Myranda wiped away stray drops from her lips with the back of a hand. “Thank fuck for coffee.”

* * *

            Their project was one of the best ones, if not _the_ best. Olenna and the guest reviewers gushed over it with technical words that she only assented to with nods of _Oh course we did it like that on purpose, totally on purpose, yes_. Sansa had difficulty fighting back her smile as she stood beside Myranda and their model. Which was also a difficult thing to do with three hours of sleep. Three hours more than half the class got. Harry beamed at her as they sat down. His project was less than good – and was fine with second-hand praise for his friends.

            They went out as a class that night to celebrate being done with it, and done with Olenna. Their professor couldn't go with them – she had some important family thing come up. Which was for the better. Some people detested her, made their hatred at the way she graded abundantly obvious with a few drinks and little sleep in them. But Sansa thought Olenna was nice, if not snarky almost all the time. Sansa didn't pipe up her opinion.

            It was late when Sansa swaggered into her apartment, drunk on praise and a little bit of alcohol. It was dark – her sister mist have gone out to celebrate before the crushing weight of finals studying tomorrow.

            Her bed felt like a gods-send. Far too soft and welcoming as she didn't bother toeing off shoes before falling onto it. Eyelids shut heavily closed.

            Shot open.

            She nearly forgot about the boxes that lay hidden in her closet.

            The larger one was wrapped perfectly, seams lining up. With care, she tore through the tape and ribbon. With even more care, plunged into the white tissue.

            The dress was elegant. Sansa couldn't think of a word other than elegant as she lifted it gingerly from the box (probably from the alcohol and fatigue. She would need to find better words tomorrow to thank Petyr for it. Or maybe actions would suffice).

            It was a dark silver – not grey, not from the way the fabric shimmered even under the faint light of her desk lamp. Silvers and greens mixed with blacks and coppers. The threading was so fine, she couldn't make out the individual strands of colors. She lifted it higher to see the frame of it. A low neckline covered by sheer lace, and on the back too. As if toeing for line between improper and extravagant. The entire dress felt like a cloud beneath her fingers.

            She couldn't wait to feel it hugging her body.

            Beneath it, Sansa caught sight of a pair of lingerie. Petyr made good on his promise to buy her countless pairs – most of which never came back from her lessons at The Mockingbird. But there was a final pair, white and shimmering. Finer than any of the other ones he’d bought her so far.

            All that was left was the smaller box.

            A part of Sansa wanted to keep it a secret until the party. A revelation for the both of them. Except she couldn't fight the itch that was already unlacing the bow.

            The mask was a silver wolf with coppery jeweled inlays. Not at all a cheap mimicry of the animal.  Her fingers traced the whorls imitating the wolf face: the short pointed ears, the pronounced nose, the slits for her eyes. She couldn't stop running over it. Memorizing it. As if it were Lady, free of the merciless bullet that caught her in the neck.

            Somehow Sansa couldn't help but think putting it on would _transform_ her into the wolf she lost.

            Just as worse as the pain of remembering Lady was the realization that Sansa was going to lose something else. Something that she loved? She still wasn't sure what, exactly, her feelings were towards Petyr. If they were feelings, or a projection of what she should feel for Joffrey.

            Tomorrow night would be her last night with Petyr. She hoped it would be something to remember.

* * *

            Sansa drove to the party, passing the long shadowed towers of The Mockingbird on her way. Or wouldn't be the last time she would see it, outside or in. If it was a place Jeffrey frequented, which Petyr assured her it was (to no dismay of his purse – the boy had plenty of inherited wealth to spend), Sansa would be in there again. with a new Master.

            She looked forward and kept driving.

            The party was held in an old castle, one of many that used to dot the landscape until modern technologies and warfare obliterated most to blackened rubble. This one wasn't safe from the onslaught of bombs – chunks missing from the walls and towers. But this one fared a lot better than some of the others in the South that were little more than broken foundations.

            Sansa did her research paper on the style. It was designed by the same architect and engineer team, proficient at melding old structures with the sleekness of new materials. Most of the glass and metal here were ornamental, attached to the existing stone rather than bandaging it like at The Mockingbird. The old towers of Harrenhal were some of the greatest examples of the designers work. People didn't talk about it other than the architecture – certainly not what the current owner has transformed into.

            As she parked, Sansa couldn't help but look north at the Vale. Where her family _expected_ her to be: prim and proper and under the watchful gaze of anyone older than her. To catch the perfect child of Ned and Catelyn Stark doing something _wrong_ , then promptly gossiping to the whole assembly of adults whose profession was to judge.

            Thank the gods the only person that knew her here was Petyr.

            She spotted the dark silver streak of his Jag, texting him _Here._ Ran fingers through any stray hairs poking out. Pressed down the front of her dress. Adjusted her mask.

            Tonight was going to be interesting for both of them. Petyr had trained her all semester (minus their sort of fallout), and he asked whether Sansa wanted tonight to be Dom and sub, or Petyr and Sansa.

            She wanted to be herself, hidden beneath the wolf. And Petyr – to reveal the man that lay beneath that mask he always wore.

            It would hurt hells more, yes. But what did these past few months prove if anything else? That a dark, twisted part of her _lived_ for the hurt. The pain. Only, she wouldn't have anyone to help soothe the wounds after tonight.

            Her phone: _I'll meet you at the entrance._

            Sansa wove through the maze of cars towards the retrofitted castle. Music pumped through the air, the faint whiff of alcohol growing stronger as she neared. Petyr told her it would be a normal party (hence the normal clothes, not a dress code of _nothing_ ). There would be an unofficial after-party at The Mockingbird for those in the know, but for the most part this would be a gathering of people worth their weight in money or knowledge. Petyr, like Myranda, enjoyed the whispered conversations of gossiping. Sansa caught him many times listening to conversations going on at other tables or on the other side of the room, all while moving to appear present. She wondered what he needed gossip for, or how he used it.

But this party couldn't be held at the usual Mockingbird for the official reason that it would be too long a drive for most. The actual reason was because everyone knew Petyr's _reputation_ , and those with a modest set of morals would outright object to stepping foot in the ruined towers.

            There was a woman checking names at the entrance. Sansa thought she might have recognized her, with her red hair trussed in a carefully lazy up-do. Behind the simple mask gilded with light pink flowers at her temples, however, she was just another stranger. Everyone could be anyone.

            Sansa's heels _clack_ ed on the stones. Beside the woman, a man turned from his perch in the shadows. Sansa froze, just as Petyr did.

            He wore a suit, as fine and as splendid as the dress she wore. It looked at black as midnight, but in the light falling through the windows, Sansa saw how it caught and shimmered in faint hues of silver and green and blue. The dress shirt was a deep emerald, threads catching the light, too. But his tie was silver with traces of copper.

            Copper like her hair.

            Upon a face that was awe-struck was a mask of black. Silver whorls wove their way, mimicking feathers. Caressing up his cheeks until they transformed into short, silver feathers jutting at his temples.

            Everything about the way he dressed them matched (he _had_ to have picked out their outfits and masks, if not played a big part in choosing the materials and designs). If Sansa didn't know better, she would think they were _together._

            What a foolish thought.

            Petyr cleared his throat. Forgetting for a moment how to breath, how to function. She had, too. “You look breathtaking, Sansa.”

            She smiled, a genuine thing. “Thank you Petyr. You look…amazing.” Like the _elegant_ of her dress, words failed her. A matching genuine smile sat on his lips.

            He offered his bent arm. “Shall we?”

            They went.

            The main hall had a certain splendor to it that came only with that melding of old and new. Thick spiraled columns reached long up towards ceilings that were as far as the evening sky. In the main hall, orange and reds filtered in through a massive glass dome overhead. It was decorated with a pattern Sansa couldn’t make out – but like everything else, it had to have been exceptional. People milled about, flutes of drinks in hand, the walls echoing flurries of conversations without providing any clear understanding. Somewhere in the shadows, musicians played a soft melody.

            With her height on him (especially in the heels, only a modest three inches), no one suspected Sansa to be anything but the woman Petyr was courting. And “fucking, else I'll do that girl enough to make her pretty little cunt ache for my cock”, whispered a man as they passed. Sansa felt her hackles rise. Saw Petyr's, but he continued walking away as if ignorant. Sansa followed his lead. Lifted her head higher, pushed her chest out. She was better than all of them. At her movements, she caught the smallest smile tug at Petyr’s lips.

            Politicians were abound, hiding behind masks. Others, too, who had to be important enough to warrant an invitation to this party. They detested Petyr’s occupation, but weren’t shy to accepting an offer to his (non-sexual) events.

            There were people Sansa recognized, governors and the head of military and the like. Even a few stars who seemed used to the mystery of hiding their faces. Those had the fanciest masks. But of them all, no one would recognize _her,_ not anyone who knew the sweet, innocent thing that lay trampled beneath the white wolf. She couldn't help but laugh at it. Sansa Stark, the perfect child of the North, traipsing around with Petyr Baelish, a man ( _the_ man?) who was known to commit sin left and right and in his sleep.

            All the better to hide in plain sight.

             “Where'd you find this one, Littlefinger?” a man much older than Petyr asked. The man didn't hide his leering gaze at her bare legs, or the way the bra pushed her breasts up. Beneath a simple mask (no animal or flora decorating it), he licked cracked lips. It sent disgust crawling between her skin and bones. Sansa did her best to appear kind, and not release her fists upon his face.

            Petyr waved the question. “Where I find all the rest, of course, Maester. She isn't for your consumption, or anyone else's but mine.”

            The old man shot his gaze towards him. Brows furrowed. “Keeping her all to yourself? That's not very nice... “ Back to Sansa. Imagining all the sorts of things he wanted to do to her.

             “I'm not a nice man, Maester.” Petyr made his point by wrapping his arm around Sansa's waist, pulling her in. “She’s _mine_.” The way he said the last word turned the earlier disgust into something else. Desire. Sansa played along – laying a hand at his collar, toying the tie loose. She maneuvered her head towards his, nipping at Petyr’s jaw with care not to scratch his face with her wolf.

            The old man huffed away, unkind words trailing him.

            Petyr gently nudged Sansa’s face away, keeping fingers on her chin as he stared at her with proud amusement. “We might need to fend off more than him, I'm afraid. You're too…” He left the sentence unfinished, only the slow licking of his upper lip to fill the blank. Unable to capture her in a word, perhaps. Far more willing to capture her with his tongue.

            Sansa fixed his tie, tracing a finger down it's center until she was just north of his manhood. Didn't travel further. Didn't remove her wandering fingers from their precarious perch. “I suppose we could quiet the gossip pretty quickly if take me in the center of the room.” Licking her lips that were etched into a smile, she pulled her hand away.

            Petyr held it between them. Bent forward to brush away auburn curls falling free from their restraint as he said, “If that's what you want, sweetling…. We might end up giving half the party heart attacks, and the other half hard-ons.”

            Her heart jumped at his words. There was a roughness to them, a _claiming._ It sent heat flooding her body. Her legs remained upright, thank the gods, even though a vivid image of them bent about his waist filled her mind. She coughed. “Maybe later,” Sansa said with a smile and a hopeful promise to ease the ache between her legs.

            His smirk remained as he let her go. There _would_ be a later, of that Sansa was sure.

            Petyr kept a hand on her at all times – on her waist, mostly, pulling her in to let every man (and some women) know that despite the reputation of Petyr's entourage, this one was not for public use. Not unless Sansa asked for it (of which she wouldn't). He chatted here and there with many people, many of whom _approached_ him. There was a certain friendliness (not really that, but Sansa wasn't sure what exactly it was) between Petyr and the people of power. As if they were well-acquainted with the small man who dealt with flesh. As the conversations went on, Sansa began piecing it together: false friendliness for the man who knew all of their dirty little secrets, and didn't judge. Or wouldn't, if not provoked.

            It was amazing, watching the ease with which Petyr carried himself among those who thought (too) highly of themselves. He was a natural. Knowing who each person was despite their carefully placed masks. Knowing what to say to make their nerves ease. Or to make them huff away without another word.

            When the drinks and mingling faded into drinks and dinner, Sansa had made some small talk with the women hanging off of the arms of men. Wives, mostly. But many she recognized carried the grace of someone who was paid for their services. Some she even recognized from The Mockingbird.

            It wasn't until now that Sansa realized _this_ was her final lesson. To learn the game of knowledge while appearing meek, fragile, submissive.

            As they ate, Petyr kept a hand firmly on her leg. Not moving, not teasing. Just _there_. Ever since the lecherous Maester, Petyr didn't leave Sansa without some form of contact between them. To reassure himself that Sansa was here and not some figment of his imagination? Sansa could say the same for him. That these months seemed so...unreal. So fantastical in how Petyr (for lack of better word) swooped in and took her deep down down into the dark recesses of wickedness. Imbibed her with the heady drink of sin. Watched as she drank and drank, and always came back asking for more.

            Sansa put her hand atop of his. Just there.

            Some people were drunk enough they began dancing between the tables to a tune that was at odds with the soft jazz thrumming in the hall. They drowned it with pounding feet and discordant voices. At some point, a serving boy whispered something into Petyr's ear to which he nodded. Minutes later, the chorus of violins and trumpets changed tune into something lighter.

            Amidst the crowding came a man with dark skin and dark wiry curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. His smile was as sweet as the lilt of his voice. “Oh, Petyr, you _must_ join in,” he said, pulling Petyr to reluctant feet. And to Sansa the man said with a wink: “I hope he's not as clumsy a dancer on the floor as he is in the bedroom.”

            Petyr tipped back his drink and pulled Sansa along. “I'll have you know, Oberyn, that joke got old a long time ago.”

             “Almost as old as you.”

             “We're nearly the same age.”

             “Ah, but at least I look younger. And prettier.”

            Sansa followed along, listening to them bantering like old friends. She remembered Petyr alluding to a friend – this had to be him. Oberyn, she remembered. He had kind eyes and full lips. And he never once let Petyr stand over him like he did to all the other people in the hall.

            She danced between the two of them, laughing as they tried to one-up the other with compliments. Oberyn won with flowery comparisons. But if asked, she wouldn’t ever tell Petyr that.

             “Tired already, old man?” Oberyn said with a sly smile several songs later. Petyr had plopped down on a nearby chair for a breather while the musicians transitioned from a raucous tune to one that was more subdued. The newcomer – who Sansa learned came from the Dornish capital, and who had known Petyr thanks to the economy of bodies – was swaying with Sansa to the long notes of the violin.

            She turned to Petyr, red-faced beneath his black mask. Even still she saw his eyes dart to where Oberyn left his hands (modestly on her waist). Saw his eyes analyze the exact inches between their bodies; the way Oberyn rested his head on her shoulder.

            Sansa felt guilty? But not.

             “Where's the company you brought with you?”

            Oberyn shrugged, his body sliding ever-so-closely into hers. “Somewhere around here, likely getting their fill.”

            Sansa didn't question what they were filling. Or being filled by.

            Petyr wiped fingers beneath his mask, around the collar of his shirt. “Will I have to deal with you at the after-party, too? Or will you thankfully leave me alone”

            Oberyn laughed. “Surely you haven't had your fill of me already, Petyr? You’re too rude. And besides, I'd never miss an event at The Mockingbird, not if I can’t help it.”

            The music was turning softer. Less and less people were dancing, or standing. Most, she realized now, weren't even in the main hall. How late was it anyway? She needed to go

             “And what about this lovely lady you've ensnared?” The Dornishman asked, bending his head to stare at Sansa through the gilded mask of what she thought was a mongoose. It was cut just as finely, yellow and orange jewels lining it. She thought he might pick something more desert-y, like a snake, but somehow the mask fit him. And made his beautiful face even more so. At that point, Sansa tried to remember how much wine she drank.

             “It's up to her,” Petyr said, his voice lowering back to its usual cadence. “She's free to do as she wants.”

            Except: what _did_ Sansa want?

            Not concerning the after party – she needed all the time and focus to cram for finals tomorrow. There simply wasn't the option of going, even if the prospect of being whipped or spanked or fucked all night enticed her.

            But this. The party, the man who taught her so much (and the other man with kind eyes that were hungry without being terrifying). She remembered Petyr saying things about Oberyn, in a restaurant that felt like a lifetime ago. A completely different Sansa sat there, talking with a complete stranger. Oberyn was a man who lived off of pleasure – knew how to give it best. It was obvious he _wanted_ Sansa. But whatever friendship existed between the two men gave Oberyn enough respect (or caution?) not to go behind Petyr's back.

            And then there was Joffrey. The _reason_ she did all this in the first place. The reason she relented to learning about wicked acts. Except, Sansa came to like them for what they were, and not for _who_ she learned them for.

            What the fuck did she want? _Who_ did she want?

            They were both staring at her. Waiting. The fingers at her waist left marks of heat beneath her dress, snaking their way towards the heat between her legs. Sansa found her voice as she slowly pulled herself from the warm embrace of Oberyn's arms. He let her go. “Next time,” she began, giving him her sweetest courtesy smiles. “I've got things I need to do tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

             “If _things_ don't include begging this man to fuck you, you need to rearrange your schedule.” Oberyn laughed as she felt heat flush her face. As she heard Petyr fight back his own laugh. Oberyn bent to place a soft kiss to the back of Sansa's hand. “Till next time.” He gave Petyr a clandestine wink (that she plainly saw) before leaving the hall. She watched him disappear into the throng that still lingered by the entrance.

             “Did you think about fucking him?”

            Sansa spun on her heel, heat rushing to her already red face. “What? I–”

            Petyr pulled gently on her hands until Sansa relented. Didn't speak until she was firmly perched upon his lap, legs collected on one side. Like a father might do for a daughter. “I wouldn't be offended, sweetling. He has a way with _everyone._ With his words, his tongue…” He trailed off, leaving Sansa to imagine a slew of improper images.

            She swallowed. Let her fingers trace over the false feathers that sat over his temples, just above his own wings of grey. Fixed the mask atop his face. Petyr leaned into where her fingertips brushed over his ears and jaw. “Even you?”

            The line of his mouth crooked. “In a way. He wouldn't be a terrible lay, or so I'm told.”

            Sansa wanted to offer an _experiment_ of whether or not Oberyn was as sure as he seemed. Only, that would imply a _continuation_ of their relationship. If it _was_ a relationship. Now, with it ending so soon, Sansa still wasn't sure.

            So she bit back her comments and let her hands travel down the black mask and upon the one made of flesh. It was warm, blood beating beneath her touch. Petyr's body seemed to go still as she traced circles, slowly, over his skin. Down jaw, up chin, capturing soft lips beneath a thumb. Sansa brushed over it in gentle strokes. Petyr parted them slightly. Wondering – not for the first time – how they would feel pressed against hers. She knew what wicked things they were capable of.

            How wicked would a kiss be?

            _No._ Sansa trailed down lips, down chin, tracing the vein of Petyr's throat before she let her hand rest on his collar. _I'm not his. He wouldn't even want me anyways._

            Fingers found their purchase atop her legs and waist. Petyr was as gentle with his touch as Sansa was with hers. It was almost strange. How they touched and explored with such softness, as if they didn't know what lay beneath clothes and skin. As if they were afraid any modicum of roughness would send this peace shattering.

            Sansa glanced around the hall. Most people were gone, whoever left either passed out drunk or on the verge. Musicians still played, but the sound was faint as if only one or two strings remained. If they relocated somewhere else in the hall, she couldn't tell. There was another couple – she shivered at the word – at the far wall, in a similar position. It wouldn’t be long until they found their clothes bothersome and their noises traveled to her ears.

            As Sansa was now. She knew she should be saying goodbye soon. Except the word, the idea of it, couldn't worm it's way from her mind into her throat, out her mouth.

            Sansa gripped the knot of the silver tie and pulled Petyr towards her. Inches separating them. She felt her body melt where he dug fingers in rougher. With words that _did_ find their way to her lips: “Where's somewhere we can go with a view?”

            The implication flashed a wicked shadow across grey-green eyes. Petyr bit her jaw, tracing the line as high as he could go. “Are you sure, Sansa?” She nodded against his mouth. Felt those lips curl up into the terrible smirk that constantly lay there.

            With reluctance on both their parts, Petyr finally led Sansa out of the hall. People were mingling about the castle, drinks in hand. Far less people than how many she saw at the beginning – now either gone, passed out somewhere, or perched atop or beneath flesh, unable to wait for The Mockingbird.

            The main staircase spiraled Sansa up and up. Petyr's hand led her right, right, left, up a smaller set of stairs outside, and left.

            Sansa noticed it before, but only as a beautiful thing too far to appreciate. The roof of the entrance and main hall had been retrofitted with glass and steel, allowing for a dome of light to spill in whenever the sun shone. The metal was etched with fine scroll work. The glass frosted in a pastoral scene, an intricate sun at the dome’s top.

            She was filled with the urge to see it during the day.

            Above them sat the night sky. Stars winking between wispy clouds. The moon hung heavy and full.

             “Are you sure, sweetling?”

            Sansa slowly brought her gaze back to earth. There was a playful smile to his lips as he had watched her marvel at the architecture. As she craned her neck to see the silhouette of the world beneath silvery light.

            Again, he asked the question. Sansa tried and tried to work out another meaning to it.

            Are you sure: you want to fuck above the throng of people below?

            Are you sure: you want to continue with your plan and be Joffrey's secret thing?

            Are you sure: you want to say goodbye?

            Sansa only knew the answer to one of them. She circled the dome, staring at the scene below until she wound up on the northern end of the building. Less frosting here, because the sun wouldn't be as strong from the north. There were at least twenty people in the entrance hall. All they had to do was look up and they’d see her.

            It was cold, even in the midst of spring. So cold she bit back a yelp of surprise as she rested a palm against the glass. By the time Petyr rounded the structure, he caught sight of Sansa leaning against the glass, her fingers toying with the hem of her dress.

             “Please, S– Petyr,” she corrected. They weren't Master and sub tonight.

            They weren't anything.

             “Your nipples are showing,” he said by way of acknowledgement, stepping closer. “I should be nice and _warm_ you up, hmm?”

            She nodded.

             “Your words, Sansa. What do you want?”

            Thankfully all her mind wanted right now was the feel of him. On her, in her. Wanted to be consumed by him. She found her spark of courage in the hungry way he looked at her. “Please fuck me, Petyr.”

            The shadowed eyes of the mockingbird mask grew darker. His voice was rough, “Of course, Sansa.” He was at her then, running hands over the shimmering silver dress. Pressing her further into the glass, trying to meld her with it. Petyr’s mouth was on her neck. Sansa’s fingers twisted in his hair. He parted her legs with one of his, his thigh brushing futilely against her core. Too much fabric, not enough skin.

            Petyr had the same thought, clawing at the hem of her dress and tugging it up just as Sansa worked the tie loose and unfastened the top button of his shirt.

            They both froze.

            Sansa’s breath caught when he didn't shove her hands away, kept them firmly at her waist. A glance at him saw shadowed eyes staring at her. Watching, waiting. She didn't want to overstep again, but Petyr was _willingly_ letting her see. In the past weeks, never once did he let her. The allusion of being her (temporary) Master kept his shirt on while the rest of their bodies lay flush against each other’s. Was it because they were just people now, without the pretense of lessons? Or was Petyr trying, desperately, to tell her something without words?

            She still debated it as fingers worked at each button, top down. Long seconds spanned the distance between one button and the next. Hours must have passed by the time Sansa parted the shirt, running her fingers beneath the emerald silk. Petyr hissed as her bare skin made contact with his chest.

            Her fingers stopped. In the silvery light above and the golden light filtering through the dome, Sansa saw it. A garish thing, jagged and pink and long. She couldn't help but trace a finger down it – from the hollow of his throat, down down until it cut through his navel. Back up to his neck, her eyes moving still higher.

            She saw Petyr biting the inside of a cheek. Felt his hands on her waist dig deeper. All in silence.

            Sansa didn't know what to say. Whether she should pry, or give mournful platitudes. Both options seemed wrong.

            So she bent her head forward, closing the gap inch by slow inch, and placed a soft kiss at the top of the scar.

            It wrenched Petyr out of whatever frozen hold he kept himself in, she heard it in the sharp breath he took. Sansa moved back and stared into the mask. Out of respect, she didn't glare at the jagged thing. She'd shown him so many vulnerabilities, she'd always wondered if he had any.

            Well, here it was.

             “I was a foolish boy…” he began, but offered no more.

            Sansa could see and feel his muscles struggling with the truth. “If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine.” Even if she was _dying_ to know how a slight, shrewd man like Petyr came out alive with something that _should_ have killed him.

            Chewing his lip. Chewing the truth: to tell, or not.

            Petyr swallowed it and continued lifting Sansa's dress. Disappointment flooded her body in tandem with the awakening lust. Then realization: that there was no point in divulging his sob story to a girl that was going to leave him tonight once they fucked. As it should be.

            Sansa shoved the thoughts aside as she ran her fingers through the smattering of hair on his chest, feeling how his muscles moved to work her free from the garment. She explored his skin in the dim light. Feeling for any other scars or wounds, but came up empty. His skin was smooth and perfect – everywhere except for that scar.

            Her concern with it faded away as Petyr found what he was looking for. Or rather, removed it. Pushing her underwear aside, he slid a finger along the lips of her cunt. His mouth bit a similar line down her jaw, her neck, settling at the join of her neck and shoulder. The feathers of his mask tickled her skin as his lips worked to leave a mark. Sansa would need to hide it, of course. It was too hot now to wear sweaters or scarves. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, she wanted, _needed_ something to remember him.

            Sansa brought her hands back around to unfasten his belt. It was a difficult task, with how he was rolling his hips against her thigh to the rhythm of his fingers that finally sank inside her.

            She released a sigh. Sansa rolled her hips, too, pushing down against his hand. Needing his fingers deeper inside her.

            It wasn't until seconds – minutes? – later when Petyr slowed down did Sansa remember where her fingers were. She unbuckled his pants, rubbing his length over the thick fabric. Then over the thinner fabric of his underwear. He grunted a _Gods,_ as close to _begging_ , pleading with Sansa to get on with it.

            She did, finally. Pulling him free. Working Petyr's cock with the learned rhythms he taught her, just as he worked at her cunt. They rested their heads on the other's shoulders, breaths tickling necks and bodies pressed against each other. Sansa bit into his shoulder as he worked fingers against her clit in a rhythm that made her forget everything else but the building motion at her core. She tried to pump him in an even rhythm, to prove that what he was doing didn’t affect her. It did. She frantically pushed her hips down onto his fingers. Building up that pleasure.

            Like always, though, Petyr stopped short of giving her an orgasm.

            Sansa bit her lip, willing her body to calm down enough to function. She stroked up and down his cock, swiping the tip with her thumb with each pass. Alternating between too much pressure and not enough – forcing Petyr to go through that same _torture_ he was fond of unleashing upon her.

            When she heard his breathing speed up, Sansa stopped. Petyr shot his eyes open into half-lidded things.

            Sansa took in a deep breath of courage. “Petyr. I don’t want your fingers. Please. Please _fuck_ me.”

            His breathing completely stopped for a moment. Sansa felt his cock twitch in her hand – a mimic of his heart, of whatever thoughts were roiling inside him.  “Are you sure, sweetling?” He'd asked her that question every time they were together. And every time, Sansa caved in to the voices in her mind warning her against _a spoiling_ herself. As if everything Petyr taught her didn't spoil her already.

            Sansa trailed down the length of his cock with fingernails. Squeezed the base. A sign of her own thoughts fighting against each other. She wasn’t sure – that was the only thing she knew. But she had a feeling that doing this, having sex with Petyr, would answer at least one of her questions. Answer one, and open up a million more. “ _Please_ , Petyr.”

            He seemed...surprised? But not surprised enough – relieved, too. From his breast pocket, Petyr produced a small foil square. The fact that he'd had one within so close reach made Sansa wonder if he had always been ready, and was only waiting for Sansa to make up her mind.

            Petyr held it for a second, the material catching the light from the dome. “Do I need to teach you how to put on a condom, sweetling?”

            She stared at it. “I think that would be _kind_ of you.”

            He peeled it open, pressed the rubber into her free palm. Showed her how to apply it to his hard cock. She used a little too much pressure, but Petyr – like he always had been – didn’t chide her for _learning_. It was only when she broke the rules did she earn punishment.

            With it on, it felt surreal. Petyr was going to fuck her. Finally. With fingers, and tongue, and toys – and now, his cock.

            He lifted the hem of her dress higher, above her waist, sliding her underwear completely off of her legs. Taking his time as he gingerly lifted each leg as he did so. Letting his fingers rest moments longer upon her skin.

            “Raise your hands above your head. Unless you’d like to be in some other position?”

            Sansa shook her head, and did as she was told. If anything, this wouldn’t be the _only_ position he’d have her in.

            Petyr aligned his cock with her entrance, rubbing the tip up and down her slit in a painfully slow pace. Sansa pressed her hands against the glass for purchase as she tried to push down onto him. Each time, Petyr pulled away, _tsk_ ing at her actions. She bit back unkind words.

            He wove a hand between them, rubbing at her aching clit as he gently slid the tip of his cock into her cunt. Sansa’s breath caught. Her body forgot everything, her mind went blank. All that existed was their joining, the filling of him inside of her as Petyr inched his cock in. She gasped when he was fully sheathed.

            Good _gods_ it felt better than anything he’d done so far. Even their last lesson, with a butt plug in her ass and a toy in her cunt. Now, because it was Petyr’s length that filled her, Petyr’s warmth, his heartbeat echoing in the space between them – Sansa felt tears prickle at her eyes. Blinked them away with a sweet voice: “ _Fuck_ me, Sir. Please. I _need_ you.”

            Petyr stared at her, breaths short. His words fell on her skin, dug deep. “You’re absolutely _filthy_ , sweetling.”

            Sansa smiled.

            Her words had broken whatever reign he had on himself. Petyr dug his fingers into her bare hips and thrust himself in and out. Slow at first. Letting her adjust to the fullness of him. But it didn’t take long until Petyr’s need grew desperate. Sansa was struggling to keep herself upright, her hands _itching_ to touch him. To tangle in his hair, or his shirt. To wrap arms and legs around him and let him fuck her until all she cared about was the slick rhythm of their hips.

            Fire burned inside her. Stoked every time Petyr dug further inside her. With every swear she uttered, with every grunt he released. She wanted it to _consume_ her until there was nothing left.

            Petyr pulled her away from the dome. Just far enough to snake a hand around her thigh and knead the soft meat of her ass. Sansa’s arms bent awkwardly to keep herself from falling. She ached to wrap around him. But didn’t – he ordered her to keep her hands above her head, so she would.

            As if reading her thoughts, Petyr awarded her a short smack to her ass. Another. Not nearly enough that she wanted. Sansa always wanted _more_. And when she got more – more, more, more.

            Petyr kept up his punishing rhythm with his cock as he push a finger inside her ass. Slowly, and not completely – it hurt without the lube. But gods if it didn’t feel fucking good.

            “Sir– Petyr– I–”

            Sansa rolled her hips, tried to match his pace. But she was erratic, so fucking close to the blissful waves that she had come to yearn for. That she had come to ask.

            Except she couldn’t find the words to _beg_ him, not with the flurry of swears and breaths that escaped her lips. Petyr’s voice was just as strained with the effort of waiting. He pulled out almost completely with both his cock and finger, and suddenly thrust both in. “Come for me, sweetling,” Again, harder and harder until–

            She came, calling out his name as she bowed into him. Petyr followed just behind her, his voice lost to the warm deafness overtaking her.

            Their bodies slid against the glass dome. Crumpling into a mess of heaving breaths and erratic heartbeats onto the cool stone. It didn't feel cold, not with the warmth spreading from between her legs to even her fingertips. Or with the weight of Petyr's body, spent.

            She shut her eyes. Rolled her hips against his softening cock. Wanting to live in this moment, forever. Sansa tried to shut her brain off entirely. It didn't work.

            The sky was a beautiful blackness spotted in silver. The clouds streaking through it. The moon a large, watchful being. Staring down at them – judging the sex they just had, the sex (and various improper acts) they’d had in these past months. Judging Sansa for the wild beast she let loose. It ripped apart the innocent thing she was. Tore it until even she would struggle to piece her back together.

            There was time, wasn't there? Time for Sansa to change her future. She didn't _need_ to be with Joffrey. She didn't _need_ to offer herself – her body – up to him. Sansa wasn't entirely sure whether or not he would find her efforts satisfactory.

            Another glance at everything. The fine clothes that lay upon them, rumpled evidence of what they'd done. The elegant party with powerful guests and fine food and laughs. The stranger who smiled at Sansa with all of his face, and gave her what she needed. Gave her more. Always.

            Sansa's heart ached at the realization. Ached because it had always _known_ , hadn’t it?

             “Petyr,” she began, fumbling with her fingers. At some point, they found their way into his dark curls. Relishing in the softness there. She licked her lips. Stared back at the man with soft eyes that gazed back with such an intensity. Waiting in anticipation for whatever she was going to say.

            Only she never said it.

            From below: “Where. _Is_. He.”

            Each word punctuated with venom. Each word – three of them only – louder than the next until the last was a wild shout. So loud they penetrated the thick glass between them.

            Sansa whipped her head. Peered down through glass fogged with their efforts. Saw the large bundled mass of skirts and faded curls. Sansa was confused, if anything.

            But Petyr. Petyr stared down at the woman. In _fear_.

            No.

            Sansa tore her fingers from his hair. Shoved him aside. Righted her clothes in a flurry of movement drowned by the voices screaming in her head: no no no no _no_.

            A hand shot for her arm. Sansa shrugged out of it. As if it _burned_ , stung her as hot as the claws that were ripping through her chest.

            She didn't bother putting her heels on, wanting more than anything to _leave._

             “Sansa–” he called after her as she shot to her feet. “ _Sansa_ ,” again, as she threw the door open. It crashed against the wall.

            Her bare feet slapped against the stones as she ran, nearly tripping on every other step. Stray pebbles dug into her soles, but she paid them no mind.

            Sansa blamed the drinks and dancing earlier. Blamed the sly smiles Myranda gave her, the confidence to act. Blamed whatever thing always lay waiting inside of her. But she didn't want to blame that stupid ache in her heart.

            Stupid. Foolish. Idiotic.

            She ran through every insult she knew, aimed them directly at herself.

             “You!” the shrill voice called as Sansa barged her way through the entrance. People opened around her, alcohol clouding their confusion.

            A hand clasped her arm. “Stop, you thieving whore!”

            Sansa torn her arm free, the sleeve tearing. And not without getting a good look at her aunt's seething anger.

            Sansa didn't want to be here. She ran for the door. Didn't want to deal with the mess of that _stranger_ she left upstairs. Didn't want to deal with the vile words spewing behind her, or the woman attached to them.

            Or her _uncle._

            Stupid stupid stupid.

            She slammed her car door shut and tore out onto the highway before she finally heaved the building sob out of her.

            She should have _known_ there was something else. She did, didn't she? Caught it in the way he was _careful_ with her. In the way he smile _knowingly_. In the way he _insisted_ she was sure she wanted sex with him.

            A mockingbird. A terrible creature spewing exactly what was wanted.

            And Sansa fell for it. Fell for _him_.

            She didn't know who she hated more.

            When she approached the hideous towers, she sped faster. Almost crashing into one of the few other cars lining the highway. Almost not caring at all what happened. At some point between The Mockingbird and King's Landing, she pulled over into a quiet motel parking lot and cried until her eyes hurt and she wanted to rip her heart out of her chest.

            It was past midnight when she pulled against the curb and wandered towards her apartment in a daze. What she would give to take back the last semester. She would willingly go through the hell of projects again if it meant she wasn't the _foolish_ girl who couldn't see past the longing in her heart for a stupid boy. And the foolishness at going through with a foolish plan with a terrible man who didn’t care about her.

            A conquest. That’s what she was to him. A check mark next to all the other women he’d have. There was a fucking reason why that vile man had a reputation. And she didn’t fucking listen to it, or to the voices in her head warning her from the start.

            What a fucking idiot.

            Feet turned a corner. Stopped.

            A shadow sat at her door, fifty feet away and alone.

            She thought it was Arya, her keys forgotten inside (and her phone? Though to be fair, Sansa hadn't the energy to check hers if that was the case). A huddled slump of flesh and a curtain of brown hair that absorbed the corridor’s light.

            Sansa’s heels echoed against the concrete.

            The figure’s head shot up. Its face glistened with tears. Darkness stained cheeks, eyes, throat.

            Sansa gasped. Couldn't find her breath, or her voice, as she kneeled beside the girl. Wanted desperately to wipe away the tears, to get in her _I'm sorrys_ and hug her until both of them forgot what worries clawed at their hearts.

            She didn't do or say any of that. Her heart was already so broken, so messed up, she couldn’t find it in her to break off another piece. All Sansa did was stare. Managed was a feeble, “Jeyne?”

            Her friend’s cries drowned the silence.

 


	10. lesson 9: dominance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [God, the best thing ever is reading everyone’s comments after a good cliffhanger ;)))
> 
> Thank you so much for your love (and anguish)!!! Here we go into the beginning of the fallout, and this time I'll warn you there's plenty of good drama. Feel free to continue yelling at me about it lol. (also apologies for any errors - I've got a new laptop and edited this on google docs)
> 
> Warning for attempted non-consensual sex this chapter.]

 

_ He watched her, terror in her eyes widening in realization. Felt her pulse quicken, beats of  _ no no no  _ mimicking his own. Felt his heart ache as she pushed him off - and all he knew to do was grab at her arm.  _ Don't go _ , the words caught in his throat.  _ Please _.  _

_ She shook him off, and in the silvery moonlight he saw tears prickling at her eyes.  _

_ Petyr figured something like this  _ might  _ happen. Figured his foolish wife (gods, the idea still detested him) would catch wind of all the late nights spent at the office. She did, their last weekend. Petyr drank a heavy dose of whiskey before dealing with Lysa in bed. It was - unfortunately - the only way the woman believed Petyr to show his affection. In her deluded mind, love was only a thing spent without clothes. Which was how  _ she  _ forced her love all those years ago. Lysa thought sometimes Petyr didn't love her the way he used to. She was right - because Petyr never loved her. Not even after he drank himself near to death and she took advantage of him. He wanted to be with her for as long as he could throw her (an inch maybe? If that). Petyr would have left her months ago if it weren't for the fact Robert still wasn't eighteen. _

_ He would shut his brain off and deal with the unpleasantness of her in and out of bed, so long as he got what he wanted in the end.  _

_ Everything. _

_ Except he hadn't considered this possibility. This other thing he  _ wanted  _ so desperately. To please, to have, to consume. In the blind need for Sansa, Petyr didn't realize how close Lysa had to be watching him. Figuring things out. Didn’t realize his daft wife had the wits to realize anything was amiss. Spying on him? It was possible.  _

_ No - he hadn't  _ wanted _ to consider it. Which was a blind foolishness on his part.  _ Of course  _ there was the stark similarity in their hair and faces and everything. Of course there was the stark similarity in how they would both leave him broken with his only consolation Lysa. He just didn't want to believe it. _

_ So he stood on the roof, fixing his clothes, watching through the fogged glass the scene below.  _

_ Beneath the silk that he finally allowed her to remove - a show of  _ trust _. A show of:  _ Here’s my heart, do with it what you will _.  _

_ The throng of people parted to let Sansa through. Lysa turned to it, to her. Petyr pressed towards the glass, afraid for Sansa. He watched her try to avoid his wife - her  _ aunt _ , gods - but the bigger woman was intent on her fury. Grabbed onto Sansa, tried to pry the mask off with words of  _ Thieving bitch  _ reverberating into Petyr's ears. His hand shoved painfully against the glass. Wanted to break it. Wanted to fling himself between them and save Sansa. To finally tell off Lysa. Rid himself of her.  _

_ Sansa managed to shake off her aunt, managed to run through the parted crowd that was glad for the entertainment. Petyr stumbled around the dome to the front of the castle. Saw the glinting silver wolf weave through cars. Were tears staining her cheeks? Were sobs silently splitting her in two? Because they were for Petyr. Quiet chokes that began deep in his chest, pushing against bone and muscle and skin at the weak tear lining his torso. He felt the flesh pull apart. He remembered too well why he closed up after her mother killed him with her disinterest.  _

_ Petyr did it. He fucked up. Again.  _

_ Except he was close. So fucking close to  _ having  _ Sansa, completely, with her own heart that ached as painfully as his. It had to have. It had to be those words he longed for just on the tip of her tongue when Lysa barged in. Gods how he needed to hear them. _

_ And now - never. _

_ He would give anything to take back the last minute. Minute? Two? Had it really been a minute ago Lysa stormed into his life and ruined it. Gods how he hated that woman. _

_ Sansa's word heavy in the air: his name, a certain curiosity and  _ excitement  _ to it. As if she realized something and wanted to share it. Petyr wanted to fill the words in himself:  _ Petyr, I don't want this to end, please have me forever. I  _ want  _ you.

_ She started her car and tore away. Below, Lysa was hysterical, screaming into the open air, Petyr momentarily forgotten. Against the stillness, the whispers of the crowd indistinguishable. _

_ Her car faded into a speck of red light. Farther and farther she went, not looking back, not caring for the man that shattered her. _

_ So he watched in silence as he let her go. _

***

“Mom said Robert was real pissed you didn't show up yesterday. Well, she didn't say  _ pissed,  _ but-”

Arya froze on the threshold, hand still on the door, when she spied Sansa. And Jeyne. And Harry and Myranda.

Sansa hadn't known what to do. Her friend’s silence for  _ months  _ had her assuming Jeyne was just tired of Sansa. Or at the least she found more interesting people to occupy her time with.

Not to mention Sansa didn’t want to be alone. Not with the weight of what she realized - of what Petyr unknowingly  _ revealed  _ \- sitting heavy in her chest (even if it was conjecture - there couldn't be any other reason he was so fucking terrified at seeing Lysa unless he was  _ cheating  _ on his wife. With Sansa. With his wife’s  _ fucking own niece _ ). So Sansa led Jeyne inside and eventually called her friends. 

Arya snapped out of her confusion, closing the door but entering no further. “Um, Sans?”

Sansa turned to her sister. She and Gendry were out, with a promise between sisters not to tell on the other. As far as either were concerned, they were studying furiously, one at home and one at the library. Sansa felt a twinge of regret at realizing that's what she should have been doing. Or even - gods - putting up with Robert for the night. The boy was annoying, but he wouldn't have broken her completely.  _ Like his new father had done _ .

She shook her head at the thoughts.  _ Go away _ she wanted to tell them. To tell  _ him,  _ except her throat was filled with a barely-contained scream. “We're just dealing with a heartbreak,” Sansa said, trivialising the situation. 

Arya’s gaze flitted between the four of them. Jeyne wrapped in Sansa's comforter, pressing herself into Sansa. Sansa, an arm around her friend, neither unable really to come to terms with what had happened these past months. Harry and Myranda trying to make breakfast without gossiping too loudly between themselves. 

Arya didn't look like she knew what to make of it,  _ heartache  _ and  _ boyfriends  _ not her thing. Payback was more Arya - she was as willing to throw down as their brothers when Sansa's heart had been torn in high school. “Alright. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

When she closed the door to her room, Sansa looked down at the mess that was her best friend. It was long into Sunday morning now, and in that time Jeyne offered nothing about why she was here, or how, or what happened.

Sansa itched to pry. As the duty of a good friend to help hers. The only reason she didn't was because of the sunken look to Jeyne's eyes. The tremble of her lips, the press of her body into hers. As if the comfort of someone else was forgotten. 

Sansa soothed Jeyne's hair, staring over at her other friends. Harry offered to help, and they went to buy breakfast at the cafe down the street, splitting them up while they waited for the coffee and tea to finish. Myranda was muttering something to Harry. Sansa couldn't help but worry she would end up divulging all of her secrets: the party that at started it all, the obsession, the vile things she had willingly let done to her. The  _ revelation  _ last night. 

They juggled the mugs and plates over to the coffee table, sitting across her on the floor. Harry offered a mug of tea to Jeyne. She didn't take it. Or eat. Didn't really seem to register that there was food, or people, or where she was.

_ Why didn't you call me if things weren't good?  _ Sansa wanted to say. There was plenty of time to mull over what happened with Jeyne from the quiet cues. The heavy silence gluing her lips shut. The darkness beneath her eyes.  _ Why didn't you just get out of there when you realized something was up?  _

Sansa could ask herself the same. 

A muffled  _ ping _ . Sansa fished carefully beneath the fluffy comforter for her phone, hoping Jeyne wasn't sitting on it. She didn't want to wake her friend from these fleeting moments of sleep. Or to scare her - any sudden movements made Jeyne cringe into herself. Sansa found her phone eventually, stuck between the cushions. 

Arya:  _ Legit though, what's going on?  _

Sansa glanced at everything. She didn't even know how to begin - or how to approach it  to her sister. The less Arya knew, the better.

Sansa:  _ Just some boyfriend trouble. And trying to avoid studying. Did you go to  _ \- Sansa fumbled on finishing the text -  _ Lysa's party?  _

Arya:  _ lol no.  _

Sansa was upset at that. Granted, they made plans months ago to  _ not  _ go for the sake of their own sanity. Now she wished her sister did, so she knew  _ why  _ and  _ how  _ her aunt left her own party to chase down their uncle (heart froze at that  _ familial relation _ ). Those thoughts had more than enough time to sink deep, crawl within every crevice that it missed last night. Hours later and it still hurt like hells.

Sansa:  _ Did mom say anything about it? _

Just vague enough to get the details without divulging her own interest in them. 

Arya took a while to respond. Across from her,, Harry and Myranda were talking with the pretense of studying. Likely coming up with their own scenarios of what happened. Which Sansa couldn't blame them for it. Throughout, Harry made a point to glance at Jeyne often, with worry furrowing his brows. 

In the silence, too, Sansa tried to remember about how her  _ dear uncle  _ became that. Was there even a wedding? Surely Sansa would have been invited to that. And her aunt wasn't the kind of person that knew how to keep her mouth shut about anything remotely exciting. It went double for exciting things about herself. 

They were  _ family _ , and yet Sansa couldn't for the life of her figure out how or when  _ that man  _ came into her life officially.

Her phone finally lit up (she turned the noise off for the sake of her friend, who finally went to sleep). It was a long string of texts that kept rising up with incoming messages. Gods, Sansa was terrified to read them.

Arya:  _ Okay, so I got this mostly from Jon  _ \- (which would explain why Sansa didn't hear anything yet; she was also surprised their mother let Jon go to such a personal event. Maybe in lieu of two of her children… ) -  _ and it's kinda wild. So they get there, and of course Lysa decked out her place like usual. Except when they got there it looked real nice? Robb was like “yeah it's usually tackier” cause it is. Remember her forty-fifth birthday? Gods I was embarrassed for her.  _

Sansa laughed. It  _ was  _ embarrassing watching a grown woman act so childish. 

Arya: _ Anyway, they get there, all the families and stuff are there. Our families and the Vale. Robert’s there and charging mom and dad and the boys, and complaining you aren't there. But like no one wanted to deal with him so I dunno where he went. The boys ignore him and go get some food (which was good, the only thing that would've got me there if I didn’t have to deal with Robert lol). Eating and drinking and shit. Goes on for a while.  _

Arya:  _ But!! No Lysa.  _

Arya:  _ This is where  things get wild tho _

Because she was likely driving down to where Sansa and her  _ uncle  _ were. The why was obvious - she caught wind of their relationship. The how wasn't - what tipped her off? What made her leave during her own party? 

A part of Sansa didn't want to keep reading. Would her siblings know that the reason  _ things got wild  _ was because of her? Would her siblings (and parents) accept Sansa into the family still if they knew the impure things she let her uncle do to her - that she moaned and begged and screamed for.

She could still feel the weight of him atop her. Inside her. 

Her body shivered. 

Arya:  _ of course mom is worried, because Lysa has done weird things before in the past, even if she won't talk about them up. (next time we gotta get Lysa drunk enough to hear them lol). Anyway, mom’s talking to everyone who's also confused. No one knows what's up  _

Arya:  _ then fucking Robert realizes his mom isn't there and starts crying. He's what sixteen or seventeen? So like yeah that gets everyone's attention  _

Arya:  _ his Maester is trying to calm him down, all their people trying to hide him from friends and families. Cause he's fucking old and still crying for his mommy (Jon def thought that was weird) _

Arya:  _ but get this - Robert was crying out for his “uncle” _

Sansa’s heart hammered. 

Arya:  _ Except like….. Lysa isn't married? Uncle Jon passed away years ago. And the guys that try and go for her for her money I guess aren’t crazy enough for her. So everyone's in a shitstorm wondering who and what and wjy this uncle is _

Arya:  _ *why. No one knows anything and no one is saying anything except Robert. I dunno I think everyone started leaving. But mom was PISSED at Lysa  _

Arya:  _ Cause like she got married without anyone fucking knowing  _

Arya:  _ lmao _

Sansa didn't think the situation deserved a  _ lmao  _ at all. There certainly weren't any laughs last night when Sansa caught sight of Petyr's terror, of Lysa's anger. Sansa could still feel the iron grip of her aunt’s claws. It was going to bruise, if it hadn't already. 

She would need to tread carefully to get anything else out of her sister. Deep breath. 

Sansa:  _ lol, really???  _

Arya:  _ really dude  _

Sansa:  _ Do we know like who she married? Some rando?  _

Arya:  _ I dunno, but mom talked with Robert before they left, and Jon said when she got back to go home, she was quiet _

Quiet wasn't good. It was  _ horrible _ if you were on the receiving end of it. Catelyn Stark was not the type of lady to show her anger, growing up in a household that valued manners and etiquette in women. But her children learned well enough what her tells were when even the gods couldn't stop her anger. 

And silence was the worst of them. 

Sansa:  _ Huh, so Lysa gets married in secret between what, now and Robert’s party, and we don't even know who it was? _

Arya:  _ Nope.  _

Did her mother  _ know  _ him? It was a difficult image to create - someone as composed as her mother, talking with someone as terrible as Petyr. Or the idea that Catelyn would willingly associate herself with anyone who dealt with sex and  _ uncouth  _ things. She would never. She would slowly kill Sansa if she ever found out what her daughter had been doing in secret for months. 

So if her mother didn't know him, then Lysa would have? Their aunt was crazy, for sure, but she grew up in the same home with the same stringent rules. She would have been forbidden to associate with someone like Petyr. So unless Lysa found that appealing, she would have been a lot like Catelyn in regards to  _ propriety _ . 

There was something key Sansa was missing. 

“This is boyfriend trouble, right? Or like, some other reason you wanted us here?”

Sansa turned up to the other side of the room, kept turning until she caught Myranda leaning half atop the sofa’s arm, head bent towards her. She had the decency to keep her voice low, even if the itch to know  _ everything  _ burned heavily in her eyes. 

Whether Myranda was talking about her, or Jeyne, Sansa couldn't tell. “I think. She hasn't said anything yet.”

“Did you meet him?” When Sansa didn't answer, she clarified with a nod: “Her boyfriend. Was he, I dunno, bad?”

Sansa stared at Jeyne's sleeping form, huddled beside her. Curled up so tightly she might as well have been trying to disappear. “Once. I don't know him, so I can't say if he's the reason or if it's something else.”

They sat there for a while. Harry had left sometime, to study probably. 

Finally, whatever was eating at Myranda blurted out of her lips: “What about you?”

Sansa didn't look at her friend. Afraid that any unwanted  _ emotions  _ would give her away. But not looking was just as damning. “I'm fine.”

“Girl, everyone knows  _ I'm fine  _ is code for  _ I'm not fine _ .” Myranda scooted beside her until their thighs touched. Sansa was firmly sandwiched between them. “Look, if you don't wanna say, that's cool. But like… there's something off about you today? You used to smile like you've been fucking - I know, I know, you're  _ too good  _ for that. But seriously, if it's boyfriend trouble I'll kick his ass before I rip his balls off.”

“Please don't.” She hated him,, but that would be going a little far. Especially when she remembered the feeling of his chest beneath her fingers, the trace of his scar in the silver moonlight. The way his mouth explored her. The bruised flesh she tried to hide at her neck. If Myranda saw it, she didn’t voice acknowledgement.

But Sansa’s words were acknowledgement enough that  _ something  _ was going on. She resisted the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth.  _ Idiot _ . She might as well have spilled everything. 

Myranda looked air-headed, but she always caught the whiff of drama. Followed the scent until the very source. And right now, she was sitting beside the juiciest piece of gossip. “ _ Don't _ what?”

Fuck. 

“If this is about that Jeffrey guy - wait Jaffrey? Joffrey? I don’t remember. If it is, and you've been hiding it from me…” It sounded so much like a threat. Because it was. Brown eyes honed on Sansa, body poised to pounce until she got whatever truths were just out of reach. Myranda could be downright  _ merciless  _ when she needed to. 

Sansa wanted to deflect the conversation.  _ Needed  _ to, if Sansa expected to get out of here with her secret and mask intact. “Do you still keep in touch with your friends and family back home?”

Myranda knew exactly what Sansa was doing. Maybe it was sheer curiosity that made Myranda go along with it. Eyes narrowed, tongue dragging a slow trail across her lips before replying. “A bit, yeah. Why?”

There wasn't any chance this was going to work, but it was the beat Sansa had. “What do you know about Lysa Arryn?”

A laugh. Jeyne stirred beside Sansa, but didn't wake. Thank gods. “The crazy bitch up in the estate? Everyone knows about her.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Why?” She wasn't going to budge without reason. 

Sansa gnawed on her lip. An exchange, then. Of information. If she didn’t  _ need  _ this… “Tell me what you know about her, and what she's been up to recently, and… And I'll tell you about my-” My what? Petyr wasn't a  _ boyfriend  _ (gods that sounded so wrong). He was her uncle (probably, still not confirmed)? He was a fling? A tightly wound secret that managed to unravel her completely before tossing the strands away in a tangled heap. “About my own trouble.”

The  _ boyfriend  _ was implied there. All of it made the smile that slowly spread across Myranda's lips absolutely terrifying. Sansa never wanted to cross her. 

“Alright. What you wanna know about that cuckoo?”

Sansa tread carefully with her friend (and quietly, her other friend not forgotten, and not stirring. Sansa couldn't help but fear this was the first time in a long while Jeyne felt  _ safe  _ enough to sleep so soundly). “What gossip have you heard about her recently?”

Myranda thought on it for a few seconds. “I know my dad’s still in the Vale, and he calls sometimes. Mostly to make sure I'm alive. And not pregnant. But about her, he doesn't say much?”

“Has she…” Careful. Sansa needed to word herself so as not to seem  _ too  _ interested. “Has she done anything real unexpected? I'm sure your father would've heard about it.” Or Harry’s. Except the thought of exchanging information with him made her stomach flip. He might offer it willingly. Or Sansa would need to use his poorly-timed  _ affection  _ for her. 

No. She shoved the thought out of her head. She wouldn't use a poor soul's affection to get what she wanted, not like how  _ he  _ used her. 

Myranda twirled a brown curl around a finger. “I think it was a month ago? Or two? I can't remember, but when dad called he was pretty pissed about something. Might be what you're talking about? I could give him a call and see what's up.”

A month or two ago. Then it must have been during their not-a-breakup thing. Was that what the  _ business meeting  _ was? A marriage to her aunt and subsequent honeymoon? So he was a  _ married  _ man when he got back together with Sansa. And fucked her. And twisted her thoughts and heart just for fun.

Except Sansa thought back to their first not-a-date. The fact that he drove north. To the Vale, and to his wife? There wasn't a ring around the damning finger then, but if he didn't get married until later, there wouldn't be. And he was smart enough not to wear it when he was trying to lure Sansa in. Of course he wouldn't. He wasn't a complete fool like she was. He just wanted to warm her up, sink his claws and teeth deep beneath her skin - take her innocence under the guise of helping her.

Now that he had that, there was no point in saving whatever  _ this  _ was. 

Sansa partially wished Lysa caught them in the act. Just so she could tear him apart as thoroughly as she felt.

“Sans?”

Myranda's head was cocked, tongue caught between lips. Waiting for the juicy secrets Sansa promised. Allowing Sansa the chance to divulge them willingly - but if she waited any longer, there would definitely be some amount of force needed. 

“Thanks, Randa. Uh, I guess it's my turn?” Her friend nodded, brown curls bouncing excitedly. “I… I didn't want to tell you unless things went good.” Lie - no one ever could have known. “It was kind of an on again, off again thing? Not to mention I was so busy, we couldn't see each other often. And things were going okay for a while. It was...pretty good, I guess. I don't have much to compare him too. You already know about how well my prom went. And then… My uncle, well, he-” 

“Oh my gods,” Myranda cut her off. “Girl. Did you do the dirty with your  _ uncle _ ?”

“ _ No _ !” Jeyne stirred at her side. A quieter: “No.” Gods, this was a terrible idea. She hadn't meant to include him at all, but her mouth was working faster than she could control it. Sansa needed to pull herself out of this fucking fast. “No. My uncle  _ caught _ us. We were, um. Joffrey and me, we were at a party recently, and he took me up to the roof. To watch the moon rise. And we, um, made out. But then my uncle caught us and we ran.”

A lie, but not. A rearrangement of the people and facts - and a convenient exclusion of how far things really went. 

“Gods.” Myranda was grinning. It was hard to tell whether or not she bought the lie. There was enough truth to it to keep Myranda satisfied for a long while. “My little Sansa is finally growing up…”

Sansa would have blushed in embarrassment if her body wasn't frozen with terror. “ _ Please _ don't tell anyone.” 

“Is that why you guys haven't posted anything on facebook yet?”

_ Oh, good point _ . “Yeah. We're... We're not sure if our parents would approve.”  _ Like hells they would.  _

Myranda placed a hand over her heart, though it looked more like she was groping herself. She might have been a little. “I promise. Girl code, and all. But  _ you  _ have to promise to keep me in the loop with what happens.  _ Especially _ when y'all finally do it.”

Which she _did_. Last night. Sansa hadn't the time to shower, only to change her clothes. To rid herself of the _proof_ of how he defiled her. If Myranda slunk an inch closer, she would definitely catch the lingering scent of sin that clung to her skin. 

Sansa couldn't bring herself to throw away the clothes or the mask. She should. She  _ definitely _ should. But they were too nice to throw away (that's the best excuse she came up with in the hours since she ran away from the castle, heels in hand, tears pushed away just enough to get out). Sansa should rip her skin off wherever he whispered lies into her flesh with his mouth, fingers, more. 

Except a part of her couldn't bring herself to do it. 

“Sure.”

Myranda leaned against the armrest, a satiated grin upon her. “Is he a good kisser?” Not satiated enough.

_ I don't know _ . “Yeah. I wouldn't be with him if he wasn't.”

Myranda laughed. “Good, good. I taught you well. A man that doesn't know what to do when he's kissing you doesn't know what to do when he's fucking you.”

Sansa only smiled shyly in response. The innocence of someone who hadn't done it yet. Of someone who's gone only as far as kissing and light touching. All lies. Because it wasn't  _ Joffrey  _ who took her out to wonderful dinners. And it wasn't  _ Joffrey _ who showed her that sex and bliss weren’t wrong. Or who knew how to use his mouth and fingers to make her ache for the the simplest form of affection: a kiss.

Except - Myranda didn't need to know the truth. 

Except - none of it  _ was _ true, and lies were always bound to be unearthed. The consequences would be horrible. Death, maybe, if her mother ever found out how how impure Sansa was. Laughter and whispers and shadowy promises from unknown men to do things with her. 

She and Joffrey  _ weren't  _ together. 

Not yet.

****

The week before Lysa showed up and ruined (saved?) everything, Mr Baelish arranged for Sansa's entrance to Joffrey's graduation party. (She started thinking of him as  _ Mr Baelish,  _ because  _ Petyr  _ seemed far too intimate after all they had done. There was also the nickname people at the party used for him -  _ Littlefinger _ . Which she would have used if it didn't sound like it would be his pimp name. And using  _ uncle  _ was just...no). The party would be held at The Mockingbird because of course it would. There was some folksy saying about trying to avoid something and being shoved towards it instead. But Mr Baelish had promised to arrange her with Joffrey early enough on so he wasn't too drunk on alcohol or sex. 

Sansa hoped after Lysa, Mr Baelish wouldn't go back on his word. It would be the sweet finality to his conquest, right? Having her, and a week later passing her off to her new Master with a note of  _ She's been broken in already.  _

They hadn't gotten new information on the drama that was their aunt her new husband. Arya tried to cajole Jon or Robb to overhear any conversation their mom had. But they were too clumsy to do it without getting caught. Sansa offered more half-truths to Myranda in exchange for her to call up her dad and (with promises of  _ no I'm not pregnant, no I don't want to go on any date you've set up _ ) asked about the cuckoo in the Eyrie. Every family in the Vale was rightfully upset, hoping to outlive little Robert once Lysa ground herself into the dirt. Now there was another man - younger than most of the Vale, and who managed to eke hearty laughters out of her aunt’s belly, if the rumors were to be believed. And with a penchant of never leaving Lysa's side, they feared she too would love live longer than expected. 

A day after, Sansa got a text from her mother confirming if Sansa had been studying the night of the parties. Sansa lied, sending an old selfie of herself at the library surrounded by books and notes. Catelyn Stark only responded with:  _ Good luck on your studies.  _

Sansa couldn’t help but fear what Lysa might have said between now and crashing Mr Baelish’s party. Did Lysa talk about that  _ thieving bitch _ that stole her new husband? Was Lysa in her right mind enough to catch glimpse of red hair and a silvery wolf mask? Was that why Sansa’s mother texted her?

If it was, or if it wasn’t, Sansa kept thinking each text was going to be the revelation that it was her that caused all this drama.

Gods, even on the drive to the ruined towers she was debating whether to forgo the entire thing. Her finals were over. She snagged an internship downtown thanks to Olenna putting in a good word for her, and had her parents’ permission to stay in King's Landing during the summer. Sansa debated ditching that, too. Because every time she went to her room, saw her bed, she couldn't help but remember that fateful phone call she made with a tattered business card between her fingers. Maybe she would take over Arya's room. 

There was one other option. Something that was a balance between the two - and at this point, seemed her best shot at getting out with her sanity. Get in, woo Joffrey just enough, and take a picture with him. _Proof_ , that all her lies to Myranda weren't false. And then make up more lies about how he broke up with her. And then convince Myranda not to chop his balls off.

And if she could do all that without running into Mr Baelish, her night would be perfect. 

_ Almost as perfect as the nights you spent tied to his bed _ . 

She swerved her car.  _ Get out _ , she wanted to scream. At herself. At him, for digging himself so deeply into her very being, pieces of him were stuck wound around her soul. If Sansa could claw him out, she would. 

Back-lit by the roaring sun, The Mockingbird jutted out into view. Like jagged fingers, breaking through the earth into the world. Drowned by dirt and bathed in fire. Sansa felt her throat close up as she drove nearer. 

Myranda happily took Sansa out shopping after their last final. Sansa needed something  _ appropriate  _ to wear, and the garments she had as gifts from him felt wrong. Especially if she was going to give herself up to Joffrey. Especially if Mr Baelish saw her in the silky things he'd bought. She could picture the smirk, the words of  _ I've consumed you so completely you won't be able to fuck the boy without calling out for me _ . Which was also another fear she didn't want to admit. Shoved it beneath her heart, piled with the thousands of other thoughts that kept her company during the week. 

It was simple, the lingerie Myranda helped pick out for tonight. Not at all like the silk and lace and exactness of the infinite sets Petyr - Mr Baelish - bought for her. But it was skimpy enough to give Joffrey a good view of what Sansa was offering. And modest enough to protect that image of purity that Sansa managed to keep.

It wasn't until she pulled into the parking lot that Sansa wondered if she could get away with another task. Of being  _ good enough  _ for Joffrey, while being  _ out of your reach  _ for Mr Baelish. To keep her head high and show that the hurt didn't affect her. That she was  _ glad  _ to be out of his grip. 

How would he react if she asked Joffrey to fuck her in the main hall? Would he watch with amusement at how well his  _ teachings  _ were? Would he proactively offer her body up for anyone's use? Would he shove Joffrey away and say she wasn't allowed to fuck anyone but him? 

Which would Sansa prefer? 

Deep breaths. Sansa timed them with the clock, waiting out the few minutes before she would go in. She was early, as usual. Waited longer than usual to leave the safety of her car. 

In January, Jeyne dragged Sansa here under the guise of loosening her up. Now, Sansa could hardly get Jeyne to eat, let alone talk about whatever tragedies she went through these past months. Harry was kind enough to study at Sansa's place and bring over food and medicine for her friend. Even if Jeyne didn't eat, he still tried. Sansa felt a heavy ache each time she looked into tired brown eyes. Was it that boy she had with the dark eyes? Except Jeyne seemed happy when they drove back to King’s Landing. And they were together before then (how long, Sansa didn't know. At least a few weeks). Was it someone else she met at the party? 

Was it because Sansa was a shitty friend?

There were two strong-looking men on either side of the entrance, checking admittance. As per the employee dress code, they wore little that did nothing to hide the silhouette of their manhoods. Nor did it hide the muscles that sat just beneath skin. The line extended well out of the door. She thought Mr Baelish might have put her on a ‘quick entry’ list, but she didn’t want him knowing she was there. Sansa fumbled with the bracelet around her wrist the entire time: blue and black, the sign that she was looking for a male Dom. Only one in particular, though. Nervous. Excited. Afraid. 

Uncertain. That was what ate at her the most. 

The security checked the authenticity of her bracelet. If they recognized who she was - who she had been spending plenty of time with these past months - they didn't say anything. 

“Enjoy the party, Miss Stark.”

Sansa scanned the entrance hall, the rooms adjacent. Looked through the large window at the back, and all the people already thronging inside with drinks in one hand and someone else in the other. 

It wasn't that she saw it as  _ normal. _ It wasn't normal at all, this sort of lifestyle. Not that it was wrong, either. It was that she had gotten so used to it now, it was almost jarring remembering how out of place she felt the first time.

But she was on a mission tonight. To get in, find Joffrey, get her proof, and get out. Avoiding Mr Baelish would be a plus. But Sansa couldn't say for certain whether or not the security already informed him of her presence. Or if maybe he had some tracker chip planted in her bracelet that  _ beep _ ed the second she stepped foot on his property. 

All the more reason to get on with it. 

A flute of champagne found its way into her fingers. Her nose prickled at the bubbles. So much lighter than the whiskey he would let her sip on (for courage) before their lessons. Sansa downed the flute and found another. She would need all the courage she could get. 

Her feet wandered through the rooms. Watching. It was unusual to see them so filled. And it  _ should have  _ been unusual to watch people touch and grope and fuck in plain view of anyone who wanted to see. Sansa's eyes glazed over those scenes. Not wanting to give her own body ammunition to change her course. 

She wandered upstairs at the private rooms, surprised to see them all in use. Made wide berth of the one she knew too well. 

Outside. Sansa used to marvel at the expanse of the grounds The Mockingbird covered. How precise everything was. Even the ruined stones embedded in the earth. The neighboring towers standing on guard, broken. Mr Baelish was always  _ precise  _ in everything. 

The God's Eye was too far to walk to, not unless she wanted to sit on its shore all night and forget her plan. Which she could still do. 

Back inside. And no sign of Joffrey. 

Sansa lost count of how many flutes she'd imbibed. Too many, and not enough. 

Men had come up to her throughout the night, all of whom left her alone when she politely declined their advances. Some of them she recognized from the masquerade. Without masks, they looked hungrier. She could see it in the twitch of their fingers, in the bulge between their legs. If they recognized  _ her  _ from the masquerade, none of them made note of it. All they saw was the inviting bracelet around her wrist, her body and the pictures of what they wanted to do to her. 

That isn't to say they weren't unattractive. If Sansa was more like Myranda, she would have gotten her fill of orgasms by now. She wondered, too, what Myranda would make of this place. If anyone would leave alive or walking once she was unleashed. 

Sansa smiled into the drink she finished. 

“ _ Finally, _ ” someone hissed beside her. Sansa followed their gaze to that massive window. 

Pulling up the long drive to The Mockingbird was a lone sports car, a jarring red against the sprawling greens. Sansa was surprised she didn’t hear its approach earlier - it dwarfed all other sounds of pleasure in the tower. She watched it approach, saw him park and get out with all the swagger a boy that knew he was the center of attention could muster. 

Sansa could tell he was a little bit drunk and impatient. Whether he was late was his fault or not, she had the feeling that Joffrey would expect the party to begin at his arrival. A slow thing, since he had to park his sports car further than most. 

When he  _ did  _ arrive, everyone made the point to stop what they were doing - talking, drinking, fucking - and lathered all their attention onto him. 

Yes, Sansa would get proof and get out. If she could get an orgasm from it, good. And then she never wanted to step foot in this gods-awful tower or this strange lifestyle again. A flash of short sandy hair and soft brown eyes. A contagious laugh, even underneath the weight of rejection. Yes - Sansa already had someone that would be kind to her.

Joffrey didn't need to know that.

She watched from the wall as people approached to give false platitudes.  _ Congratulations  _ filled the room, as did  _ You'll make a fine politician, just like your grandfather.  _ She hadn't seen this much ass-kissing before, not even the couple she caught kissing ass and fucking outside. It - the show of inflated smiles and gratitude - was making Sansa sick. 

When the crowd began to thin, Sansa steeled herself with a long breath and removed her coat. Adjusted the simple white lace over her breasts, her hips. Tousled curls for that  _ slightly fucked  _ look. 

Only a part of her hated herself as she swaggered toward the Lion. 

He shoved past a couple at the sight of her heading for him.  _ They're all the same,  _ she thought. 

With her head down and chest out, Sansa gave him a small curtsy. Manners were key. “Congratulations, Sir.”

Joffrey - who had definitely been growing annoyed with the same well wishes, his hands firmly gripped at his side - smiled with wild hunger at her own wish of  _ Congratulations.  _ “Thanks.” There was a roughness to it. Sansa couldn't help but wonder how long he would last. If he would, at all. 

“I hope you'll accept this present I've brought for you.” A pause, in which she could hear his thoughts. Confirmed them with: “Me.”

Fingers clasped her chin, made Sansa look into him. With heels, they were the same height. Joffrey licked his lips, not bothering to hide the darkness in his eyes. “Really?” She nodded. A glance at her bracelet before he returned to her hips, her breasts. “Then get on your knees, sub.”

Sansa nodded again. She could feel the heat of people's gazes upon her. The whispers of their confusion. None of them said anything, or did anything. Just watched.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of black. A figure - the  _ only  _ figure - that would wear so much clothing to a sex party. The idea almost made her smile. Almost. 

_ Tick.  _

For a second that felt like hours, Sansa stared at Petyr between a gap in the crowd. He looked...tired?  _ From carrying all of his lies.  _ And from dealing with her aunt, with the gossip that surrounded the question of: who was the person that brought  _ happiness _ to that wretched widow? Of: who was the person that would (by legal proceedings) inherit the huge Arryn estate that every man and woman in the Vale eyed with greed? Of: who was the  _ thieving bitch _ that threatened to tear the newlyweds apart?

But he also looked surprised. Maybe he was just as uncertain whether or not she would come. 

He opened his mouth, as if intending to mouth words to her. An apology? An I-told-you-so?  _ Too late,  _ she wanted to say back. Scream back. 

_ Tock.  _

Sansa kneeled before Joffrey on steady legs. Head bowed, chest out, back straight. Eyes focused on his shoes. Head swimming with fear - with none of it showing on smooth skin. The perfect image of submission. 

She saw Joffrey make a cursory walk around her. Too quickly to really  _ appraise.  _ Meaning he'd already made up his mind. “Follow me.”

She nodded. 

Sansa didn't look back as she followed Joffrey deeper into The Mockingbird. 

* * *

It wasn't the same room, thank the gods. Sansa thought she might have run out if she had to endure the torture of memory. Of feeling the weight of the leather lap against her. The demanding press of his fingers across her, inside her. The warmth of his cock as she took him in her mouth the first time. 

Well, the memories didn't care. Sansa stoppered them as best she could. Pushed them back. So many slid between her fingers. In the corner of her vision, she swore she saw a flash silver and grey and green. 

The plan. Get in, get out. Forget about The Mockingbird and the man behind its mask. 

“Sir-” she began. 

“Go set yourself up over there. And take off your underwear, sub.”

Sansa bit her tongue. He was probably impatient from being late to his own party). Not to mention from her own  _ experience  _ with men (a single man) _ ,  _ Sansa knew Joffrey would be more up to discussing after he's fucked. He probably wasn’t thinking with whatever need was coursing through him. A quiet compliment? For how much she affected him? 

Joffrey had her lean over a four-legged structure, padded where her skin made contact. Her chest lay flat, her legs standing and spread for her Master’s viewing and use. 

“You like being spanked and hurt and fucked like the bitch you are?”

Sansa was shocked at the roughness in his words. But not afraid, not necessarily. Every Master had their own traits and likes, just like every sub did. She remembered being told Jeffrey liked it rough. Sansa hoped her lessons were rough enough - the physical ones, at least. The lesson inside her mind and heart was as destructive as she wanted it to be. 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. I’m going to smack your ass till it’s fucking red. Then I’m gonna fuck you. You like anal too?”

Sansa wasn’t sure, because Petyr - Mr Baelish - had only ever put toys inside her ass and not his cock. With proper preparation, it wasn’t as horrible as she thought. But it had been a week without, and Sansa hoped her body was still accommodating. “I’m not opposed, Sir.”

“You’re supposed to say  _ Yes _ .” With that, Joffrey smacked her ass, a resounding clap echoing through the room. Sansa pushed her body into the table. It stung like hell. And she wasn’t sure if that was him  _ warming her up _ or not.

It wasn’t. Joffrey didn’t make her count, but didn’t stop. Sansa’s fingers hurt where they gripped onto the edge of the table, her cries muffled into the padding. It hurt, but it felt good, too. She missed it - the pain. Only, Sansa missed the softness of fingers soothing over the strikes. Joffrey was concerned only with the pain.

He fingered her when he’d finished reddening her ass, dirty words spoken into her ear. Sansa focused on the motion of his hand, and not on how she wished his voice carried a different lilt to it.

Joffrey had to pause when she asked him to use a condom - a muttered grumble at that, but he obliged. His hips smacked into her bruised ass as he fucked her cunt. His fingers digging into the marks, making Sansa writhe into him and away from him.

It wasn’t long before he came inside her, her own orgasm close but far. “You’ll come when I tell you,” he said when he’d caught his breath. As an afterthought.

While he disposed the condom, Sansa couldn’t help but let her mind travel miles away. To a warm spring night. To a clear sky and silver moon. To the press of icy glass at her back and warm flesh at her front. Her hands digging into skin and hair, pulling pulling pulling and pleading for him not to stop. The moment after was the worst of her life - but the joining, the bliss of finally doing it with  _ him _ ...

_ He  _ ruined her. 

Sansa wanted to scream. 

“Gods.”

That wasn't Jeffrey's voice. 

Sansa craned her neck to see the door shutting with a soft click. She hadn't even heard it open. 

The newcomer leaned against the door for a moment, dragging his dark eyes over Sansa’s body. Slowly. Pausing where her ass pushed up into the air, reddened from Joffrey's biting slaps. Her need coating the inside of her thighs.

He looked familiar. And  _ hungry.  _ He was rubbing himself over black jeans. When his gaze caught Sansa’s, he made an effort to rub harder, to flick his tongue out as of licking her cunt from afar. 

“Thought that bastard wasn't going to let you in again?”

The newcomer scoffed, his hand never stopping. “Probably not, but he didn’t guard the back entrance. Besides, too busy tonight to pay attention to it.”

Sansa heard things being shuffled behind her. Joffrey looking for whatever toys to subject her to. Sansa had found a peace with letting him do whatever (up to a point) before she stopped and demanded her proof. But now, with the someone else…

“What you in the mood for Ramsay?”

Joffrey had to be showing him different toys, all of which Ramsay - familiar face and name - shook his head at. Joffrey eventually slammed the drawer with a huff.

“Calm your tits, Joff.” He laughed. “Besides, it’s always good to use your own hands - that way you’ll know how much it’ll hurt.”

She stared at him. At the slow drag of Ramsay's hand down the teeth of his pants. There was dirt beneath his fingernails. “I've been wondering how loud she can scream for  _ months _ . And she just kneels for you? The fuck do you think you are?” They both laughed.

Sansa’s gaze shot up to him. He caught it - and began pumping his cock with it. With the look of her confusion? Is that what got him off? 

He slowly approached. His wild gaze never staying too long on one thing - imagining, probably, all of the terrible positions he wanted to take her in. 

When he was close enough the smell of his desire was overpowering, he trailed a fingernail down her cheek. Too roughly - a pink line left against her skin. Then rounded to her backside, admiring the red that covered her ass. Pressed the flesh, harder and harder until Sansa whispered a  _ Fuck _ at the pressure. At that, Ramsay struck her with a terrible blow. With her scream still hanging in the air, he bent down to whisper: “Almost as loud as your friend was.”

No, not confusion.  _ Fear.  _

She tried to jump off the table and run for the door, but Ramsay clamped hands over her wrists. He called to Joffrey for restraints - for her hands and legs. To be completely at their mercy. Sansa’s heart beat erratically. SHe could feel it in her head.

Joffrey rounded into her vision with leather cuffs. And with a wild smile to his gaze - one that almost matched Ramsay’s. One that had always been there, if Sansa hadn’t been so fucking blind not to see it.

_ There isn't shame in admitting you can't so something.  _ The words weren't hers: they invaded her head with probing fingers, in a quiet lilt that she could never forget. 

“Halt.”

The widening smile on Joffrey's face vanished. “The fuck?”

She practically screamed it: “ _ Halt _ .” A good thing too - Joffrey's hand clamped her mouth, pulling her head back; just as Ramsay thrust his cock towards where her mouth was. Both to  _ shut her up _ . 

“You  _ gave yourself  _ to me, sub.” The words seethed with anger and impatience. 

Sansa tried to scream again, but his grip was too strong. Her neck hurt, her back, at the angle he pushed. And with her wrists still clamped beneath Ramsay’s hands - there wasn’t a way out of this. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“A gag, too,” Ramsay said, his fingers digging deep into her skin. They might have broken it. “A pity - her screams were so fucking  _ good _ .”

Joffrey fumbled clasping the cuffs to her wrist with one hand, a feat that was easier when he moved onto the second. Sansa writhed against their weights, but it was too much. They were too hungry for their vile needs, and Sansa to inexperienced in dealing with them. She would be lucky if she got out of here alive.

Ramsay made a temporary gag of his cock in her mouth as Joffrey went to find a real thing. Took his time with it. Laughed as Sansa gagged against Ramsay’s forceful thrusts. She felt vomit trickling up her throat.

“Let’s see if she lasts as long as the other girl,” Joffrey said, shoving Sansa’s lingerie into her mouth. Her jaw ached.

And behind her - the warm, heavy press of Ramsay’s hands against her ass, spreading her cheeks apart. Sansa bit into the fabric, hoping, praying to the gods it would be over soon.

Loud banging on the door:  _ wham wham wham _ .

“It’s fucking occupied!” Joffrey yelled. His cock had hardened again, hand fisting it as he stared at Sansa’s helpless form. He slammed against the metal, fumbling with his free hand to find the lock. The lock that wasn’t there.  _ For safety _ , she remembered him saying,  _ the doors aren’t capable to locking. In case someone uses the house safe word _ .

Halt.

Sansa felt the intrusive press of flesh against her ass. Someone shoved hard against the door, Joffrey flying onto the floor.

“Get the  _ fuck _ off her.”

Sansa couldn’t see with the tears clouding her vision. She heard, and felt, Ramsay pulled away from her. Heard him give fight as security rushed the room. There was a lot of yelling and a lot of fist-throwing, to the point where they managed to overcome the sobs that she choked against her gag.

Fingers unlaced the cuffs. Hands lifted her from the table, wrapped a blanket around her, and carried her away from the commotion. A fist displaced air just inches from her face.

She tried to will the tears to stop. Somehow the gag was removed, and she heard her own strangled voice above the commotion of whispered voices.

Slowly, slowly, her heart slowed, her crying dried up.

There were hands on her shoulders, holding her up. Waiting for her to come to. To look.

She did.

Sansa stared at Petyr. 

Heat and ice collided inside her. Gods,  _ of fucking course _ the fates would have him here, watching as she blatantly failed to woo Joffrey. Watched as all her lessons shattered into the stupid, dumb, foolish girl she was. 

And the whispering voices, the people they belonged to. They must’ve thought she was a fool, too.

“Are you alright, sweetling?”

Slowly, she breathed. Slowly, she blinked away the tears until she could see her dear uncle with enough clarity. She wasn't going to cry again. Or run away. She wouldn't give him any of that wicked satisfaction at  _ breaking  _ her. 

He'd already swallowed enough of her pain. 

She fought against the urge to wipe the tears from her eyes.  _ Let them see _ . More surprising was the steel in her voice: “I'm surprised someone of your reputation lets people like them in your establishment, Mr Baelish.”

There was a twitch of muscle at the name - practically foreign from her lips. Never the name she called out when he made her come. Or the name he insisted she call her when they were out being  _ normal _ . “I apologize for whatever happened, sweetling.”

He glanced into the room behind her. Back at Sansa. 

Was that it? His  _ apology _ for all the shit. She managed to bit back the laugh that bubbled in her throat.

Sansa didn't realize in the moment how  _ kind  _ he'd been at not using her name. The throng of vile politicians in here - even  _ Joffrey  _ himself, his grandfather leading the council - oh, what sort of things would they have done to debase the family of the girl who said  _ No _ to the golden Lion?

The Starks wouldn't survive under the crushing weight.

In the moment, in this moment, all Sansa wanted to do was scream. 

She wouldn't  _ thank  _ him. Not for the courtesy, not for the weeks of learning what a true Dom is. Which was the only thing that saved her from being abused by them. At realizing (late) that Joffrey didn’t set up the required boundaries, or ask her what her safe word was, or even tell her that  _ monster _ was going to have his way with her, too.   _ Like Jeyne.  _ Gods, Sansa didn't want to think what her friend had endured for  _ months _ while Sansa thought she just didn't care. 

All she gave Mr Baelish was a curt nod. As if that one action could convey the maelstrom of emotions and words that raged inside her. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, everything would tumble out. Not here, not in front of strangers and onlookers. 

Maybe not anywhere. 

Petyr stared at her with a look that almost could be mistaken for kindness. Concern. Pity.

Almost. Sansa wasn’t going to fall for that trick again.

She didn’t thank him, didn’t look back into that room, as Sansa collected her things and her jacket, and walked out. She wasn't embarrassed by the red covering her ass. The hair disheveled, lingerie torn, mascara smeared. 

Her biggest embarrassment was letting that man sink his claws so deeply, she couldn’t breathe with the holes he left in her lungs. In her heart.

 


	11. lesson 10: submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I just want to say THANK YOU so so much from the bottom of my heart for all of you for sticking with me through this story! Every hit and kudos and comment honestly made me smile like an idiot! :) Y'all are too sweet (even when I threw all that fun drama your way)
> 
> I took a while on this because I didn't really have a plan lol, not to mention there were so many different ways I could have taken it. I think what I came up with turned out pretty good though! Also I'd love to know your thoughts on the story overall, especially since this has been a journey out of my comfort zone lol.
> 
> Without further ado: enjoy~ :) ]

           Sansa buried herself in her internship.

           It was a hells lot of work. Even on her first day, she was thrust into working on drawings and had to learn on the spot. Oftentimes she was overwhelmed with not knowing –  _ school only taught so much, _ a kindly Braavosi man who sat behind her told her. The toughest thing was learning how to apply all the concepts into the real world. 

           But as much work as it was, Sansa was glad for it. Glad she didn't have time to do much else but the piles of work that only ever grew. Eventually she asked for more, needed more work and late nights that were completely out of the realm of duties of an intern. Everyone there thought she was just hardworking and dedicated and determined, and all those common platitudes. 

           But honestly, she just didn't want to _think_. About the night she was assaulted. About the man that used her, or the way smiles turned his lips and eyes soft. Sansa was so occupied with the need of killing her brain she had even asked to start her internship a week earlier: the first Monday after finals (two days after she stupidly assumed all her _lessons_ would prove her anything in the real world. It was one thing to apply concepts of design. It was another thing entirely to think it could work with people and their damned hearts). Sansa prolonged the internship to go until the Friday before classes end, too. She even considered working during the next semester, but even the Braavosi thought that plus normal schoolwork (and extracurriculars) would kill her. 

_ Good _ . 

           Sansa managed to avoid her family so far, it nearing the end of July and the end of Sansa's patience with the heat. (It wasn't even the hottest yet, her co-workers said. Sansa couldn't imagine it getting worse). Sansa managed to avoid her family, and their inquiring questions  _ why _ she didn't come home with Arya for the week before starting work. Or why she couldn't take time off for their annual hiking trip to the mountains. Or why she had been terse during the weekly phone calls with her mother. 

_ I've been too tired with work _ , had been her excuse for the past several weeks now. Not a lie. Fifty hour weeks (sometimes more) would do that to anyone. 

_ I've been afraid that you'll find out I'm the one that was fucking our dear aunt’s new husband. _ Oh, her mother would have a heart attack. Then come back from the dead to strangle Sansa. 

           Arya hadn't been able to find out any new gossip, even with her better sleuthing than their brothers. Catelyn Stark was careful to keep hidden whatever secrets she'd uncovered, if any. Although Arya _ did  _ mention that their aunt had visited with their mother early on, the week of finals (between the two parties that ruined Sansa’s opinion of people). What they discussed, Arya didn't know. Catelyn didn’t seem to pleased, though she had that look whenever their dear aunt was around.  _ It’s worse though _ , her sister said. Sansa was tempted to throw her internship money at Arya to find out why.

           Myranda was a better source of information. Her  _ dear, poor father  _ was upset she hadn't gotten an internship yet, or a proposal from a wealthy lording (the fact that Nestor Royce still referred to them as ‘lordling’s said something about how slow the Vale was to move on). Sansa casually mentioned Myranda should stay away from the wealthy ones. Myranda only offered (again) whether she should cut off Joffrey's balls, not caring that his twisted monkey face was plastered on TVs beside his grandfather and mother. Sansa said she'd think on it. 

           So Myranda did some sleuthing of her own, which largely consisted of either chatting the serving women’s ears off, or going down on the men.  _ They'll say anything to get my lips or cunt ontheir pricks _ . Sansa wanted to say she knew that painful truth. 

           The sum of her friend’s intel wasn't as useful. The families of the Vale were still upset, but apparently the kindly gentleman Lysa had bewitched (because who would truly love that woman in their heart?) hadn't been seen since the days following her party. There was shouting coming from the estate, echoing against the sheer mountainsides. Shouting, and crying from Robert. Myranda offered to  _ deal  _ with the boy, her smiles sweet and intentions hidden, if it meant getting closer to the gossip. Except Lysa had shut the doors to the Eyrie some weeks ago, and hadn't been seen since. The Vale was gloriously – if not suddenly – quiet.

           “Why you so interested in the old coot anyhow?” Myranda asked often. While her friend was ravenous on the gossip of the  _ old coot _ , she was equally curious about whatever truths Sansa was still hiding. Sansa’s relationship and breakup with Joffrey sated Myranda for a long while, new small details popping up every so often to keep the larger questions at bay. Especially when Sansa claimed the breakup was because Joffrey was terrible in bed, and she couldn't imagine being with  _ that _ for the rest of her life. Myranda chuckled for a week about that. Sometimes she'd text whenever an important political program was on.  _ If he fucks the country the way he fucked you, then we'll be okay.  _ Sansa forced herself to send a  _ lol _ . 

           Whether Myranda was getting close to the truth or not, she didn't say anything. The issue with her  _ uncle _ , however, was something Sansa Stark would take to her grave. Or die trying. 

           So Sansa spent her summer killing herself with work and the fear that someone would  _ know _ . And couldn't be happier.

           Harry was in King’s Landing for the summer, too. He hadn't been lucky enough – or Olenna's favorite enough (as evidenced by her  _ kind  _ deconstruction of his models). Besides, design firms usually didn't dole internships out until students were fourth years, only so after they finish their final fifth they'd come back. The whole “we’re investing our time and money” guilt thing. Sansa was torn between telling herself she only got the internship because of Olenna’s kindness; and between thinking she was better than everyone else in her year. (The word  _ perfect  _ slithered in every now and then. She stomped it). Harry worked on campus in the bookstore, which was great for him because he got to sit around for most of his shift. It was only crazy when incoming students came for orientations, with parents demanding to buy a university themed presents for practically every person in their extended family. And then some.

But Harry was kind with them, never not smiling or being helpful getting their sizes or picking out the perfect presents. Sometimes he would joke about being in the wrong field. That  _ obviously  _ architecture was a whim, that he wasn't cut out for it based on all the lackluster reviews he'd had. Sometimes, later at night, Harry would allude about how his aunt expected him to be someone great, and he tried his damnedest not to disappoint her. Sansa knew the feeling. 

Sansa also wondered how she was so  _ lucky  _ to have him.

He was kindest during the first few weeks of summer, when Sansa took care of Jeyne. Sansa never said she  _ knew  _ what Jeyne went through. Because, well, she didn't. Sansa had the mercy of being freed before they did anything irreparable to her. Jeyne was stuck with them. For  _ months.  _

Of the few things her friend said interspersed between quiet stares into nothing, Jeyne mumbled, “Why didn't you answer.” Not phrased as a question to Sansa. But Sansa – in the free time she had between killing herself – understood what Jeyne meant. The unlisted phone calls of silence, the  _ wrong number  _ texts that Sansa eventually blocked because they were too much and too many. 

Jeyne had been trying to contact her for  _ help.  _ And Sansa didn't even bother to think her friend needed any. 

Often Sansa was too consumed with the guilt of not being there to help Jeyne out. And for that, Sansa was infinitely grateful for Harry. His lease expired in May, and Sansa offered him Arya's old room. She wanted to move there to forget what lewd things she had done and said in her own. But thankfully she was too tired at the end of the day to remember.

So Harry helped out until Jeyne's father drove down from Winterfell to collect his daughter. Sansa quietly and quickly explained the situation. Vayon Poole flattened his lips as the story went on, and on, and on. Sansa spared the worse details and conjectures. But Vayon, thankin Sansa and Harrold, left with Jeyne wrapped in the comforter that was stained in tears. 

Sansa hugged Harry. Gods, he was too kind. And sweet. And  _ there  _ when she needed most someone to fill the empty spaces of her apartment. Gods, she would have gone certifiably mental were she alone with no companionship other than her thoughts. 

Sansa stared into warm brown eyes. Ran fingers through soft sandy hair. She kissed him with tears in her eyes. 

Kind. 

Except there were times – too many times – when Harry was  _ too  _ kind. 

Harry had been content –  _ more than content _ – with the kiss. With the revelation that Sansa  _ loved  _ him too (his voice almost cracked at that, a ridiculous smile spreading over his lips. Sansa's didn't). 

“We should take it slow,” he urged. His hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her away, but not enough to scare her off. Pushing her away and pulling her in. Uncertain. And excited. But the  _ way _ Harry said it irked Sansa: that they  _ should take it slow  _ because that's what he thought Sansa wanted to hear. That she was pure and innocent and too soft for anything more than a chaste kiss and a wave goodbye on the first date. 

She bit back a roaring laugh that bubbled in her throat. Her mask was good, too good. Had it not completely shattered that horrid night she tried to prove herself worthy for Joffrey, she might still believe it herself.

Sansa took a step back. Just one step. His hands still on her shoulders, hers dangling beside his neck. Stared into soft eyes that were wide with anticipation. Stared at soft lips that never once insulted her, or egged her into tears. Felt the soft dig of his fingers unmoving on her shoulders. 

Recently, she often wondered  how different her life would have been if she caught on to Harry's affections earlier – months, or years – and fell for him, too. No pining after Joffrey. No lewd lessons with her uncle. No learning how fucking  _ great  _ sex was, or how impure her soul truly was. A kind soul to fill in the image of the kind man that would sweep her off her feet and carry her into the sunset of their wonderful future.

Soft lips pursed at her, words stuck in his throat. Harry wanted the kind of soft, warm relationship made in fairy tales, Sansa was sure. She could see unfettered light in his eyes. That same vision of him carrying her into the sunset after rescuing her from dragons. Harry, the fool, wanted  _ love _ . 

But Sansa just wanted to forget. 

“Please,” she whispered, leaning in to nibble a line up his jaw. Her chest barely touching Harry’s, and she thought she felt his heartbeat hammering beneath flesh.  _ He _ was so pure and innocent and soft, Sansa couldn't help but smile into his skin.

Sansa slid a hand between them, down down down, resting firmly on the front of his pants. He hadn't been hard enough to tent the fabric. Now, beneath her fingers’ slow, gentle movements, she could feel the flesh growing and warming in anticipation. 

_ You're doing what  _ he  _ did to you _ . 

The thought wormed its way inside her. Sansa pushed it out by pushing her chest into Harry's. Rubbing against his cock through his pants. Sansa bit at his earlobe, and relished in the cry of surprise escaping Harry's mouth. This  _ eagerness  _ wasn't what he expected, she knew. This  _ experience,  _ this  _ hunger.  _

What scared Sansa worse was the thought she bit back in reply:

_ I don't care.  _

They didn't have a condom, so they got each other off with fingers. Their mouths were too busy tasting each other's. Sansa thought to give him a blowjob, too, but Harry fell down on the couch exhausted after they both came once. 

If Sansa's sudden  _ experience  _ confused Harry he didn't mention it. Likely was too filled with the warm glow of his orgasm – given to him by the  _ love of his life _ – to comprehend anything else. 

_ Three men in one semester _ , she heard Myranda’s voice, a cackle echoing in the chamber of her mind.  _ Damn girl _ . Sansa sniggered at herself, burying her face in the sheets. 

Her phone rang. Harry was blissfully asleep. Sansa didn't bother grabbing it, or bother turning it off. It was Sunday, after all. Her mother no doubt calling for her weekly check in. Sansa would call her back tomorrow on her commute to work. 

Gods how her mother would kill her if she knew the sort of woman her soft, pure, innocent daughter had deformed into.

* * *

Harry was kind, that was painfully obvious. 

Worse was how painfully oblivious he was when Sansa needed  _ more.  _

It was an effort, a struggle, to ask him to hurt her. To bite at skin, pinch nipples, crush throat. Sansa (she realized) needed the pain to help drive out the thoughts in her mind. To help ground Sansa into reality, to help elevate her orgasms into something that truly made her forget. 

Harry stared at her the first time she asked him for  _ Harder _ . It was the second or third time he had his cock inside her (Sansa thought it  _ kind  _ to let his first time (with her) be the soft and gentle thing he always imagined. Sansa had to rub her clit faster than the  _ lovingly  _ paced strokes). “You want... What?”

That  _ pause  _ alone was enough to tell Sansa that anything more wasn't going to happen. But that  _ itch _ was too prominent to ignore. “Please, Harry.”

           He blinked at her like an idiot. But he  _ loved _ her, and so he attempted to pull at her nipples and dig his fingers into her skin. It did nothing to sate the itch. If anything, it made Sansa crave for the pain even more than if Harry did nothing. 

           He was too kind to hurt her.  Therefore, spanking was out of the realm of possibility with Harry. A shame. 

_ Talk about being the good religious boy… _

She stared at him one night. He'd fallen fast asleep, the condom still wrapped around his flaccid cock. They both came (Sansa made sure of that), but they both only ever came  _ once _ . And to the tune of Sansa failing to cajole him into doing anything more than the necessary. 

Sansa imagined herself a year ago, reading cheesy novels and swooning at television romance movies with the most obvious plot lines. Sansa would have  _ thrilled  _ at someone like Harrold Hardyng falling for her. Tall and handsome and kind and a constant reassurance that he loved her. Spoken through kisses and soft touches. Spoken in the way his eyes sparkled whenever he looked at her. In the way he tried to make her laugh, in the way he cherished her and kept her safe.

Now…

Now sweet Harry was just a means to get off. Sansa knew she should feel  _ guilt  _ and  _ shame _ . Knew she should have pushed Harry away and dove deeper into her internship until she could sleep at the office and never deal with any of this. Gods, what she'd give to tear her heart out and give it to some poor sod that still believed in  _ love. _

Isn’t that what she was doing with Harry anyway?

She pinched her nipple with one hand and fingered her cunt with the other. Rolling her hips to the motion, quiet and careful only not to wake Harry up. The panic at realizing he wasn't good enough for her was too much to deal with, with weeks left until the semester started. And then what? She couldn’t just throw him away like her dear uncle had her. Sansa and Harry shared classes, and they shared  _ love _ . As she got herself off, she wondered whether or not it best to keep this farce of a relationship going, or whether to break it off before it became something too much. The only question: how. 

She slowly pushed the worry out of her mind as her fingers worked. Sansa spread her legs further, rose her ass higher. Aiming for that position to bring sweet white nothingness. She felt it then – the creeping, ghosting of fingertips up the backs of her thighs. Trailing slowly, shivering sparks running through her veins. Trailing up until they rested firmly on her ass, kneading the flesh there. Spreading her legs further until the angle was painful and her neck crooked into the pillow. 

Slowly, he would warm her flesh. Dip  _ too close  _ to her aching core before moving away. Again, teasing out her need until a whine of  _ Please  _ flitted from her lips.

She could feel –  _ remember _ – the sharp strike of his palm hitting her flesh. The way his fingers slicked with her need would sink into her cunt. The slow drag of his cock along her entrance,  _ teasing  _ her to disobey him and sink onto it before he allowed her to. Sometimes, she was  _ so fucking tempted. _ Damned the punishment if she could feel the overwhelming release. Damned his wicked smile as he  _ begged _ her to try him.

And finally, when he'd satisfied in her agony, in her moans and pleas, as he struggled to keep her hips from lowering onto his length – finally he would sink in and match her rhythms. Dig his fingers into her hips with bruising souvenirs as he fucked her without the  _ kindness  _ and  _ gentleness  _ people assumed she needed. 

Because he  _ knew  _ what she needed. 

_ You feel so fucking good, sweetlin _ g. In it, she could hear the smirk that coiled his lips.  _ So wet and needy for your own uncle. How awful... _

Sansa pinched her nipple harder. Rubbed her clit harder and faster, focusing on the movements and not the specter of the man who knew her body and how to get her off. She worked herself with abandon until she bit the sheets with her release. 

Yes, she realized once the warm haze eased from her bones. Harry would have been the man a younger Sansa dreamed of. Kind and handsome and gentle. Practically a knight in all those childish stories Old Nan would tell her amongst the stories of wicked demons prowling the North for unattended children to lure away. Sansa never understood  _ how  _ a child could find some monster so alluring. So tempting enough to stray away from home and family and life.

In the end, Sansa still was a foolish child. 

The world was always an eerie sort of quiet after an orgasm. Empty of everything but her breaths and hammering heart. Blissful, usually. Not this time. In it, Sansa couldn't help that ever-pressing thought that wriggled its way into her brain when she wasn't looking:  _ He ruined me _ .

* * *

“What do you  _ mean _ he doesn't work here anymore?”  _ He fucking owns the fucking place.  _

The woman crossed her arms at Sansa's tone. “Listen, love. He left it in charge to me and Olyvar until he gets back.”

Sansa bit the inside of her lip. She didn't have any rights to ask for more – did this woman remember Sansa? Probably, from the time she walked in on Petyr dry fucking her with abandon on the table. Sansa thought she should blush at that, but the heat that crawled beneath her cheeks was from anger.

The woman (gods what was her name again? He mentioned it in passing once or twice, never truly giving Sansa a  _ grand tour  _ because he never truly expected Sansa to stay. And the woman's hair: a rich fiery red. Did he fuck her too and imagine it was Sansa? Or was it the other way around?), the woman narrowed eyes at Sansa. Remembering, likely, the  _ foolish girl  _ that was far too over her head.

Neither said anything for a time. Sansa desperately wanted to spill the questions clawing up her throat – where is he now, why did he leave,  _ did he know the whole fucking time _ . Shoved them down. “I see.”

The woman ran her tongue over her teeth. 

Sansa could  _ try  _ and push more out of her, but the aura of  _ get out of here  _ was overpowering. Sansa couldn't help wonder  _ why  _ the usually genial woman was so bitter today. “Thanks.”

“Mmhmm.”

Sansa resisted the urge to slam her car door. A waste. A fucking waste. 

It took her a week of mentally preparing herself to drive all the way to The Mockingbird for a…well, the exact term wasn't important. Sansa didn't have his number because she deleted it the day after that party. And the emerald business card she's worn out was nowhere to be seen. The only memento she had of him was the mask and the dress – of which she spent countless hours staring at and debating what to do with them. The most she did was shove the memories in the back of her closet.

Honestly, half of Sansa had been hoping he wouldn't be here. Except the logical side of her  _ knew  _ that he would be. But he wasn't. She was, and so were all of his staff, and the broken rocks that lay embedded in the ground, and the God’s Eye sparkling in the distance. But no Petyr (she shivered at the name. It just felt  _ wrong  _ to admit that  _ he  _ had a name. And a  _ close relation  _ to her). But she couldn't imagine where else he  _ would _ be. Myranda had said the estate had been quiet for a few weeks – even the persistent wailing of Robert had silenced. He hadn't even called Sansa, either, which she hadn't realized until now. The boy hadn't any other friends or family, no one else that would kindly tolerate him. Strange, all of it. 

The only solution she could come up with was the man didn't exist. Sansa just flat out made him up as an excuse to try out all sorts of kinky things. 

Of course, that wasn't true. The clawing  _ ache  _ inside her – not her heart, gods no, she didn't want to even  _ consider  _ that possibility – told her otherwise. 

It was midday on a Saturday. She couldn't stay here, not with the staff preparing for a party and Sansa clearly without an invitation. Would he come by though, if she waited? If she put on the sweetest smile and asked the woman  _ please  _ with as much sugar to drown the continent? 

She bit her thumb, and looked north. 

During the week was a freak summer storm. It made the already humid, smelly, nasty air of King's Landing downtown even worse. But the storm went high enough to send snow upon the peaks of the Vale. When the clouds rolled behind, the mountains disappeared into the sky. It was worth a shot, right? She was already halfway there, and gods knew she had nothing else to do. The agony of  _ not knowing  _ would have slowly crept into her brain before she finally did decide to creep north sometime before the semester began.

Sansa took the Kingsroad north towards the mountains.

* * *

There was unease that settled heavily in her stomach. Sansa didn't know what it was: whether there was something concrete behind its appearance, or just a general idea that something was wrong. The notion that  _ she was really doing this.  _ Driving north, driving  _ towards  _ the man that used her, abused her, and threw her away only when he was caught. He might not even be  _ alive _ – Sansa could see Lysa killing a man if he betrayed her. 

Unless he lied his way out of it. 

Sansa tried to push out all the worries during her drive, drowning them out with her music. It didn't help. 

Her fingers gripped painfully over the steering wheel as she meandered through the Gates of the Moon and onto the Vale proper. What did she want from this, what did she expect? Things to go back the way they were before Lysa barged in? No, because Sansa might have done something even more  _ foolish –  _ like speak what her heart thought it knew. What else was there? An apology for leading her on despite being her fucking uncle? Well, from the look of shock on his face, he hadn't known either. A small solace in all that madness. 

She just wanted….answers? Yes, answers. Why he bothered training with  _ Sansa _ . To get a quick fuck? Because he actually gave a damn? 

And did his heart whisper impossible truths to him, or was this merely an outcome of how complete his corruption was? 

Whether he spoke the truth was another thing. 

The Arryn estate was the highest on the Vale, accessible only via a long winding road that was barely wide enough for one car. There were small outlets to pull into if one needed to let another car pass. But otherwise, it was a slow, dangerous trek. Sansa used to get carsick going to the mountains by Winterfell. Those, in comparison, we're barely hills. It was said that the First Men who settled in Westeros arrived at the Vale, and through the help of their gods, constructed massive castles and towers and battlements to shield themselves as they traveled further into the heart of undiscovered territory. There were more fantastical stories and versions, too, like the unearthly children who still roamed the continent. Or the dragons that tried to obliterate the Vale stronghold as they had to Harrenhal. But stories were just stories. 

Sansa stared at it. At the massive building set half into the mountain face, sprawling chambers and halls weaving deep in the stone. It seemed plainer than she remembered. All square columns and decorations, nothing at all like the retrofitted castles she admired. 

She didn't want to get out of her car, but her body was too anxious to stay cooped inside it. If she backed away now, no one would know. 

The gravel crunched beneath her feet. Sansa hadn't been to her aunt’s estate in over a year, and even before that their visits were rare. When her previous uncle Jon Arryn was still alive, her mother claimed that he was too old to deal with the menagerie of Stark children and their wolves (who were inseparable when they were younger. Well, all but one pair was inseparable). Lysa said she didn't want to leave her husband and son alone for any ventures outside of the Eyrie, so Lysa never ventured to Winterfell and hardly to Riverrun. Sometimes, Sansa and her siblings would joke that their aunt was a myth, a ghost shackled to an old estate. Rickon cried when they said she ate little boys for breakfast. 

Now, Sansa wished those stories were true. Yes? Well, oftentimes she did. Because if Lysa was merely that – a spectre, a figment of childish imagination – none of  _ this  _ would have happened. But then, if Lysa wasn't a ghost, then Sansa had no idea what foolish things her heart would have sputtered out on that roof. 

Like Myranda said, the estate was quiet. Sansa didn't even hear whispers of serving folk, nor did someone come and ask her her business  _ trespassing  _ onto the property. She wasn't, she was family. Certainly there was an exception for that. (Maybe there was an exception to the exception in cases where a niece was nearly exposed fucking her uncle).

The driveway held only one car, a layer of dirt covering it, and it wasn't one Sansa recognized. A relief that she didn't see the streak of silver? She wasn't sure. 

Minutes passed, and Sansa was sure there wasn't anyone home. She went so far as to creep to the front door and peer through the sidelights. No sounds or movements. It was empty. 

Did Myranda mention how long it was since the estate went quiet? Sansa tried to remember. Pulled her phone out and began scrolling through the texts before remembering it was a phone calle. A few weeks, maybe a month or two. It was…odd.

 Sansa walked across the lawn to peer over the end of the driveway onto the Vale below. Which house was the Royce's? (And in that same vein – which was Harry's?) Didn't matter, Sansa had a feeling Myranda would jump at the chance to hang out since Sansa _ just happened _ to be in the area already. That lie would fall through as quickly as it took someone to reach the bottom of the valley from up here. Quicker. Unless Myranda was jumping someone's bones already. 

“What up?” Myranda didn't  _ sound  _ like she was fucking someone. Good. 

“Hey Randa. How are you?”

“Eh, could be better.” Sansa could hear the shrug of her shoulders. See her flip brown curls over a shoulder as she settled into a couch. “You?”

“Same.”

“Did you need more gossip? Cause sorry to disappoint but I don't have anything new. Dad's been busy setting me up on dates.” None of which went well, for either Myranda or the boys. 

Sansa laughed. “When's he going to finally stop hooking you up?”

Another imagined shrug. “I mean, I'm the last Royce. Wouldn't want to see the family disappear, he says. Besides, not everyone's lucky enough to have some rich fancy pants fall for them. Honestly, you should have stayed and milked some money out of that prick before you dumped him.”

Sansa felt her chest tighten. Remembering the feel of silken lingerie caressing her skin. The taste of fine foods and wine, the gaudiness of the parties at The Mockingbird. Oh how  _ close  _ Myranda was to the truth. “That wasn't part of your lessons though. You only ever told me about sex.”

Miranda barked a laugh, Sansa's hand recoiled. “Girl, I swear, you're too dense for your own good sometimes.”  _ I know _ . She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her mouth from opening up and telling her friend everything. Every truth and sin and ache that kept her awake at night. “So what's up? If you didn't call me to gossip…? Work going okay? Your friend still good?”

“Yeah. Jeyne is doing better now that she’s back home. Started talking again. Work’s fine, busy as always. Can't believe I only have a few weeks left of it. Felt like I just started.”

“I mean good for you for getting that, but honestly I don't think I want my summer vacations to end.”

Sansa was glad for it. What would she have done if she had hours upon hours, day after week, twiddling her thumbs and letting  _ him  _ sink his claws further in? Something rash. Or – something rash, a lot, lot sooner. 

“True, but it's been a good experience.”

“Any hot guys or girls at the office?”

“Randa…”

“What? I'm just looking out for you, Sans. Besides, if there  _ were _ it might make it easier for me to accept getting into a job.”

“Is sex the only thing on your mind? Ever?”

A pause, as if she was truly considering it. “Yes. That, and food. What else you need in life?”

Sansa laughed. She kicked a rock across the driveway, following its path until she overshot and watched it tumble over the edge. 

“You didn't answer me though. Anyone hot?”

“No. They're all old, except for the other intern, and she's okay.”

“What's wrong with an older man?” 

Sansa tried to turn her cough into something natural. 

“ _ What? _ ” Myranda roared. She probably jumped up out of whatever chair or couch she was sitting on. Always so eager to get the details on gossip. Especially if it dealt with her best friend and some unknown hot older man. “Girl. Dude. Oh my gods, tell me  _ everything. _ ”

At this point, Sansa reasoned she might as well. Right? There was no harm in talking about it without any specifics. Especially without the specific  _ familial relationship  _ they had. Or if Sansa extrapolated him into her genial coworker with the booming laugh and warm smiles. If Sansa changed his face, and voice, and conveniently removed all the impure details of what conversations they had with their flesh… 

No, that would just be  _ more  _ lies. 

It was either the truth – sharing the heavy weight of what she did, and what she  _ craved –  _ or nothing at all.

           Not to mention she still hadn’t broken the news about her and Harry dating. Harry was unsure how their mutual friend would respond – kindly, yes, but they thought it better to wait until classes started.

           If Sansa let it last that long.

Sansa trailed fingers across the fence. Not daring to put her weight on it, no matter how sturdy it looked. Not to mention it only rose just above her waist. How easy it would be to fall over it. Her stomach churned looking over it, calculating how far it was to the bottom. A long, long way. This high up, wind whipped strands of her hair into her eyes. Hawks – or maybe they were falcons? – soared higher. An engine's rumble echoed against the mountain sides. It sounded...close. 

Because it was. 

She turned to see a streak of silver crest the hill of the drive. 

“Oh fuck.”

“Girl-!?” Sansa cut the call.

Oh crap oh crap  _ oh crap _ .

Sansa looked around for some place to hide. There were trees a bit away, skinny crooked things. Wouldn't do any good. The sparse foliage too brown, too short to provide any cover. Sansa ducked down by the perimeter fence and prayed to everygod she knew that they didn't see her. 

Except as the car pulled around, it paused at the sight of her own car.  _ Fuck _ . 

Slowly it crept the final feet forward to park in front of the house. As if the driver was looking, searching for the obvious owner of the other car. Sansa pressed herself further down. 

Gods, she shouldn't have come here. 

But this was what she wanted, right? To charge him and demand answers and crush whatever ache littered inside her. But that was in her mind. In reality, the fear that overtook her – not knowing how he would respond, not knowing how  _ she  _ would react, or any foolish things she'd do – oh, that fear told her to squash further into the asphalt until she was nothing.

Sansa  _ was  _ foolish after all. 

A door opened, the sound echoing off the towering stones the house was set into. Like a bomb. Or maybe that was her heart, her soul, exploding inside of her. The gravel crunching beneath feet shrapnel. 

“Were you expecting someone, darling?” 

Sansa's breath caught at the voice.  _ Gods _ , it sounded  _ better  _ than she remembered. Half of her wanted to rise up and see the body it belonged it – the sure hands, the sly smile, the eyes that always lit up whenever she had done something he approved.

The other half of her remembered what he'd done to her. Remembered he was so very much not  _ hers _ . 

“No…” There it was – the proof he wasn’t hers. That shrillness that grated Sansa's ears. Confusion wormed its way into her aunt’s voice as she must've been looking around too. “Were you? Do you recognize the car?”

Her breath caught.  _ Of course  _ he would recognize Sansa's car. Did he stand in his private rooms atop the tower and watch expectedly for it to meander onto his property? Did he smile as she parked, and wonder what sorts of things – or lack of things – she wore? Did his cock twitch because of the vile things he had planned as he watched her walk willingly into his tower every weekend? 

“No.” A pause. “Perhaps it's the Maester’s. I thought we told him to bring Robert tomorrow?”

_ Why are you lying _ . 

“Oh, I hope not!” Lysa's voice lost its cold confusion and filled with a sickeningly sweet tone. Gravel crunched as she moved, towards her husband. “I wanted to try out that Myrish  _ activity _ without Robbie around. You always were so  _ good  _ with your hands...”

Sansa was going to throw up. 

“Mmm. Then we should go in and check it isn't Maester Colemon and our son before we get started.” Lysa giggled at that. His voice had that same sweetness, but Sansa could hear how he coated his words with the sugar to appease his wife (her aunt). 

In it was an unspoken command:  _ Get out of here, sweetling.  _

Because he  _ knew  _ that was Sansa’s car. And he  _ knew _ (or at least, hoped) that Sansa wasn't stupid enough to break in, and had to be hiding around somewhere within ear shot. 

Could he guess  _ why _ Sansa was here? Would he change his plans with his aunt now that she was?

“Come  _ on,  _ Petyr! I thought you were done making me wait!” It was joking (and so sweet, gods Sansa was going to drown in it), but Sansa couldn't help but wonder what her aunt meant by  _ waiting _ . There was  _ something  _ between them that Sansa had mulled over in her spare moments of solitude these past months. Had been dying to ask her mother, but Sansa didn't want to give any consideration that she was involved in the issue with her aunt. 

Would Petyr tell her if she asked? Would she ask? 

“I thought I tired you out last night. And the night before that, and before that...” A kiss punctuated between each  _ night _ . He  _ had  _ to he kissing her, and touching her, from the cut-off squeal Lysa let loose. A quiet  _ thump  _ as he pressed her against his Jag. As he pressed himself, too. Yes, Sansa definitely  _ was  _ going to throw up. 

Was this his way of confirming Sansa's fears? That he did, truly, love her aunt, and only used Sansa to get his fill of young, innocent flesh? Because if that was his intention, then by the gods it was working. She wanted to rip her heart out for ever thinking anything else. 

A low rumble against her thigh, echoing through her bones. Sansa didn’t have time to react before it sounded. The cheery ringtone peeled through the air.

Fuck. 

“Who's there?”

_ Fuck.  _

Sansa fumbled between her thighs and the asphalt for her gods-damned phone, her fingers clumsy in the act. It was her mother. Of course her mother would inadvertently get involved in  _ this  _ between her sister, her brother-in-law, and her daughter. If only Catelyn Stark knew… 

Better yet, if only she never would know. 

The air grew eerily quiet when she shut it off and turned it silent. Sansa stilled her body completely. Her heart was thunder between her crushed ribs. She didn't even bother to breathe.

Between heartbeats pounding against her temple, Sansa heard  _ shushes  _ meant to console. Sharp pecks of kisses. Meant to sooth. And to silence. “It was the neighbors, I'm sure, darling.”

The neighbors who lived a long way down? Lysa was having none of it. Struggling against Petyr's grip, from the sound of it. “Probably some no good low-life. You know how much people  _ envy  _ us, Petyr.”

“A low-life with a phone?”

“And on our property!” The joke was lost on her aunt. Hysterical, and incapable of placating. Not even when Petyr sounded like he was trying to  _ tire her out.  _

It worked, for a moment. A quiet moment passed with a breeze and a low moan. Then a gasp, a grunt, and a shove of gravel. “That  _ bitch _ . I knew I recognized that fucking car.”

From that party? In the dark, surrounded by a hundred others, while in a fit of lovestruck madness? Not possible. 

Unless Lysa had been  _ spying  _ on her husband. Afraid of his infidelity (because how could someone truly love Lysa?) And recognized the car – and Sansa? – at The Mockingbird long before she crashed their party. 

_ Fuck _ . 

Sansa didn't think her aunt capable of espionage and trickery. Apparently, neither did Petyr, because heavy footsteps crunched towards Sansa. His attempt to sway her into the estate so Sansa could escape were wasted. 

“Where are you, you sneaking thieving fucking whore.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

Gravel crunched as Lysa turned, scouring whatever few hiding places her property possessed for the  _ thieving bitch  _ that was Sansa Stark. Her niece. And her husband's temptress.

Still was. 

“I doubt anyone would be  _ foolish  _ enough to trespass whilst we were away. Not to mention the day we return.” He was addressing Lysa, but the words were meant for Sansa. Gods, if she had known this would happen...

What? Sansa came here fully expecting to encounter at least her aunt. This was her fault – coming to the Vale, taking sex lessons from her uncle, not being able to let go whatever hold Petyr still kept on her. 

“Come now, darling, I think you're exhausted from our trip.”

Lysa sounded like she was creeping towards the house. The land further from the estate was lower, and lying prone Sansa was hidden from view of anyone who stood on the driveway. That wouldn't be the case should anyone come too near… 

“She's  _ here _ , Petyr. Here to take you away. I should have fucking killed her when I saw her…” Sansa knew it was her aunt speaking, but gods it didn't sound anything like the silly little-bit-drunk aunt that her and her siblings would joke about. Lysa was enraged,  _ determined. _ To find and end Sansa. 

To keep Petyr all to herself. 

Which was fine. Right?

Sansa began slowly crawling along the ground following the fence, hoping to sneak around the expansive driveway to her car. Or at the very least, be able to make it to the gate and sprint her way down to Myranda’s house and figure out her next course of action in safety. That would mean spilling the truth to her friend. 

Either that, or die by her aunt's fury. 

Petyr, meanwhile, was still trying to placate his wife. An endless spew of lies like “She wouldn't be foolish enough to cross you twice, darling.” And “I think it's best for you to rest a little first. I'm sure there's something I can do to help you  _ relax.”  _ And (Sansa wasn't sure this was a lie): “I've only ever loved one woman.”

The  _ implication  _ of that platitude caught Sansa. Because it could mean that her loving uncle truly never loved Sansa. That, yes, he used her until he fucked her. And maybe Lysa crashing the party was all a part of his plan. How convenient she appeared right after Petyr’s cock spilled his seed inside Sansa. How convenient Petyr never offered to make amends since then (excluding when Joffrey assaulted her – he did what was expected of a businessman dealing with a rowdy customer).

How convenient Petyr never said he loved her. 

Sansa gasped. Upset and shocked at the vile thought that Petyr could ever love  _ anyone  _ but himself. Especially someone as foolish as her. 

“ _ There _ !”

Sansa whipped her head around to catch her aunt pointing accusingly at her halfway across the drive. Sansa hadn't been paying attention to where she was going, or how her cover was smoothing out the further she went.

“I’m going to  _ kill _ you, bitch!”.

Sansa fumbled to her feet and sprinted for the winding hill down the mountain. In her head she tried to remember how far it was to the next house. Several minutes by car. An hour on foot. On a path that gave her nowhere to hide from her murderous aunt. Not unless Sansa ended it by jumping off the edge.

There was no way she was going to make it. 

She didn't. As she glanced behind her she felt the tears prickling the corners of her eyes. 

Holy  _ hells _ , her aunt was faster than she thought. Fueled by anger. Locked on to the bane of her existence these past months.

Sansa would be lucky to escape alive.

“I'm not-!” Sansa began to yell back before Lysa shoved her against the fence. The railing dug into the small of her back. Hands clutched desperately onto the metal. Her aunt pressed the full weight of her large body against her, squeezing the air and excuse out of her body in a frail gasp. Sansa hadn’t even had the time to figure out what the end of her excuse was going to be:

_ I'm not the thieving bitch who stole your husband. _

_ I'm not the one at fault. _

_ I'm not in love with him. _

“How  _ dare  _ you come back here after you try and seduce my husband!” Lysa's voice was thunderous in Sansa's ears, filled with venom. Loud enough to awaken beasts that slumbered beneath the Vale. One hand pulled Sansa head back, the other gripped at chin and throat. Sansa thought Lysa planned to rip her head off. It would be a kinder way to go.

Her aunt spouted endless swears mixed with variations of  _ thieving conniving whoring bitch.  _ Sansa was starting to believe she was. 

Minutes passed – or maybe a few seconds, it was honestly hard to tell – before Lysa exhausted her mouth and stared at Sansa. Ran wild blue eyes over Sansa: her eyes, her hair, the shape of her face and curve of her chest. Her grip didn't lighten one iota. 

Sansa stared back, terrified. The primal rage that darkened Tully blue eyes, the years that dulled waves of auburn hair. Was this who Sansa would become?

On and on Lysa stared in silence save the fuming, hot breaths that fell onto Sansa's cheek. Sansa couldn't see anything beyond her aunt’s face, nor did she hear anything save the pounding beat of her own terrified heart. 

Something about the way Lysa was looking at Sansa made her feel like she didn't recognize her. But she did. It was the way Lysa was staring, the way her fingernails dug deep into skin. It was almost like she was remembering.

“I didn't see her face clearly before but…” Lysa cackled. “The gods are wicked. Oh, my sister will  _ kill  _ you when I tell her the truth.” Another laugh – one that countered the frozen fear that clutched Sansa’s heart. There was no way out of this. Sansa would either die by Lysa's hands, or by her mother's. 

Her aunt’s laughter sounded so far removed from anything human, Sansa couldn't help but fear that a monster gripped her, and not her aunt. Or they were one and the same. Lysa twisted her gaze back at Petyr, who crept close enough until he was a few steps behind. He looked at Lysa with a blank face. “I'm disappointed, Petyr. Didn't you  _ learn  _ last time?”

He didn't respond. A muscle feathered on his cheek. 

“She doesn't  _ love  _ you Petyr. She  _ never _ has.” Fingers dug in deeper, seconds away from drawing blood. Lysa’s voice cracked as she said, “But  _ I  _ do. More than you could ever know.” 

Sansa had a feeling Lysa wasn't talking about her. 

Petyr clasped his hands behind his back and approached. Slow, sure steps towards his wife that he loved. And towards the girl that he shouldn’t. “I know, darling. You loved me ever since I drowned my sorrows when Cat rejected me, and you  _ took  _ me.” He spat the ending, but Lysa only smiled at whatever memory he referred to. They remembered that night very differently. Was that the night Petyr’s chest was carved in two? Or something else, something just as painful?

But what caught Sansa was:  _ Cat. _ Then that meant… That Petyr loved Sansa's  _ mother _ , holy hells. That the way Arya described their mother’s attitude towards Lysa's newlywed husband, the way her mother surreptitiously asked Sansa over and over again  _ where she was  _ the night of Lysa's party. 

_ You look so much like your mother _ , family and family friends cooed whenever they met Sansa. Always, they remarked on her beauty, her poise, these way she remembered her pleases and thank yous.  _ The spitting image of house Tully.  _

The spitting image of Petyr's childhood crush. 

Gods, Sansa was a bigger idiot than she thought. 

“Oh, my sweet wife.” Petyr drew just behind Lysa, wrapping his arms as far as he could around her body that was still crushing Sansa’s. Pressing her into him. Kissing along the line of her taut jaw. All the while grey-green eyes stared at Sansa.  _ Assessing  _ something in the way she stared back. His laugh traveled up to her ear, brushing wild curls away with his nose. “How could you ever think I would love another?”

Was he talking to Lysa? To Sansa? To the ghost of her mother that he once fell for? It was hard to say. 

“Oh, Petyr,” Lysa cooed, her grip on Sansa loosening. The wildness in her voice faded into her usual shrillness soaking with sugar. Worse when it was filled with adoration. “Do you truly mean it? You truly love  _ me _ and not that  _ whore? _ ”

In answer, Petyr drew his wife's mouth to his. Lysa wrapped her thick arms around him.

It might have been an opening, for Sansa to escape. 

Petyr, through half-lidded eyes, watched Sansa as he kissed and touched his wife. As he brought forth vile moans from the woman he swore to love and cherish and protect for the rest of his life. As the ring glinted around his finger – the ring he was always careful enough to hide from Sansa. 

He didn't silently tell Sansa to  _ Leave while I keep her distracted.  _ He didn't say anything. Just watched. Waited. 

Sansa knew she should leave. She soothed over the gouging marks left on her skin. She breathed, in and out. Willed her wild heart to slow. It didn’t, not with this  _ display _ of love, with the way her aunt truly wrapped her body and heart and soul around her husband. And so Sansa stared back.  _ What are you thinking _ ? She wanted to ask.  _ What are you doing? _ Here was her opening. Here was Petyr again casting Sansa aside. Here was her chance to run and make amends with her mother before Lysa had the chance to completely ruin her life. Sansa was a dead woman walking either way. 

But Sansa was _curious_ , too. Curious about that constant look Petyr gave her as he drew wicked sounds from his wife, almost as if by memory, as if he had done this thing countless times before and it was nothing more than a chore with Lysa. Curious about whether his love for Catelyn Stark swayed his affections for her daughter.

Curious about  _ her own affections _ .

Sansa inched a few steps to the side, just enough should her aunt turn on her Sansa would have the chance to run from the edge. Her car sat maybe twenty strides away. Her freedom twenty strides away.  _ Go,  _ her mind told her.  _ Go now while you have the chance.  _

She slowly tore her gaze from the car, from the mountain and the estate and the cloudless sky, back to Petyr. 

_ You idiot _ . 

Petyr made his mind up, a decision finalized with a smile as he removed his lips from Lysa's. 

“Oh, my sweet, silly, loving wife…” 

The platitudes fell on Lysa's drunk ears, too full with the love that she craved from Petyr. As if he was her whole world, everything in it revolving around earning his affections. She pressed herself closer into him, gripping onto his shoulders. “Gods, Petyr, I knew you would make the right choice.”

With difficulty, Petyr pried his wife’s arms away from him, switching their hands so he was gripping her shoulders. Lysa let him, too sure that she has  _ won _ . 

“There's only one Tully woman I've ever loved,” he began, drawing circles on her shoulders.

Lysa bent in for another kiss.

Petyr bent in, too, but never touching. Made sure Sansa was staring at him as he said: “You.”

Her heart froze.

Lysa was still giggling with her overwhelming love for him as he pushed her over the fence.

Sansa screamed. 

Petyr captured it with his lips. His hands tangled in Sansa's hair, body pressed against hers.

Wind whipped around them as they tried to ignore the crunching of flesh against the mountain. 

* * *

There was a text from Myranda. A lot of them, in fact. So many that Sansa's hand was sore from scrolling to the top. 

The first:  _ Sansa I swear you better tell me what’s up!!!! _

The next fifteen minutes later: _ holy shit, you're not gonna believe this. _

Sansa  _ saw  _ it. And she  _ still _ didn't believe it. 

They boiled down to a summary of Lysa going batshit crazy and watching her – hearing her – plummet to the valley floor. 

_ Like, I didn't really like the lady, but damn. Who would do such a thing??  _

Sansa shot her gaze up at the man who did such a thing. He was stirring sugar into one of two mugs of tea. The scent of mint wafted into her nose. 

“Don't worry, the Vale won't bother with Lysa. Not yet, at least,” he said as be set a mug before her. The sugar left whorls on the surface.

Petyr told her that over and over in the last ten minutes since Lysa's screams stopped echoing against the mountains. And while no one had traveled to the estate to check… Sansa still was uncertain. And a little worried at how  _ uncaring _ the Vale was with regards to murder. She remembered Myranda saying how they all vied for the Arryn estate ever since Jon Arryn passed. Now, maybe they were patiently waiting for Robert to fall, too, before making the trek to the Eyrie.

Sansa sipped her tea. It tasted like Petyr. Warm and soothing and searching – the way his body moved atop her, inside her. It tasted like the kiss he used to silence her. To confirm that word that echoed over and over in her mind:

_ You _ . 

_ I've only ever loved you _ . 

She let the tea burn it's way down her throat.

Sansa rubbed her hands around the mug when she finished. Hoping the warmth would ease the uncertainty sitting in her stomach. “So… What do we do now?”

“About what, sweetling?” Gods, she missed how he said that. She knew she shouldn't, knew after watching him murder his own wife she  _ definitely  _ shouldn't. ( _ All for you. Don't forget your aunt's dead because of you _ – Sansa didn't drown out the voice because it was right).

“About…” The fact that Petyr just threw his wife off the edge of a mountain. And the Vale who was already talking about it, already scheming about who would inherit the Arryn estate once Robert was dead. About the fact that there still existed  _ something  _ between them, solidified in a kiss that lasted long after Lysa’s body collided with the valley floor. A kiss that Sansa leaned into.

And about the fact that Petyr wouldn't have killed his wife if he didn't love another. 

She dragged her gaze to his.  “About everything.”

Petyr sipped his own tea, eyes not leaving hers. Not searching, like he had been before (searching for the admission that, yes, there was still something clutching Sansa’s heart, something that led her to the Vale this day. Not chance – fate). Petyr was staring as if he  _ missed _ staring, missed the shape of her face, the hue of her hair. He set his mug down. “Lysa won't be missed. Not by anyone in the Vale, at least. I'm sure Ca- I'm sure your mother would be upset. And Robert, of course.” He paused, as if  _ sorry  _ for turning Robert into an orphan. Robert still had Petyr as a stepfather, yes, but everyone knew how attached the boy was to his mother. “I'll have to contest the Vale until he turns eighteen in January.”

Sansa felt guilty, too. Pushed it aside in favor of finally earning her answers. “And then what? You'll leave as soon as he does?” _ Or will you kill him, too, and crown yourself king of the Vale?  _

“No. Though that was the plan.” Another sip, to steel himself for the truth. “I've grown a fondness for the boy. Odd as he is. He'll live.” 

It should scare Sansa. That this man swooped into her (dead) aunt's life with the intention of  _ taking.  _ Everything: their affections, their home, their wealth. And once he had it all – throw them away. Discard them. And go off to find something new to conquest. 

That is, until…” And me?” she asked her voice quiet. Her voice as loud as she could make it through the fear that gripped her. 

_ You.  _

“I trust you won't say  _ how  _ our dear Lysa slipped over the fence. She always was a little clumsy wasn't she?”

She was, but that wasn't the question. It was a question of  _ cooperation.  _ Another kiss asking Sansa, pleading her, for her silence. 

If Sansa disagreed, well, she was just as guilty as Petyr. “She was.”

He smiled at that. 

           “And what about  _ me _ ?” Sansa pressed.  _ Did your plans change because of me? _

A pause. “You… I never expected you, sweetling.” And then his smile slowly faded. Sansa heard the unspoken word:  _ I never expected to love you _ .

In the heavy silence sat the other implication behind Sansa's question:  _ what about us _ . What about whatever thing existed between them, long before Lysa shoved her way in and tore it apart. Long before they both heard her smack against the mountain walls.

Petyr stared at her fingers wrapped around the mug. A tentative hold, the dregs of mint and sugar lying on the bottom.

She wondered if he saw his heart between her fingers. He  _ gave _ it to her: in his confession, in his kiss, in his rashness pushing Lysa off. His heart sat, beating and unsure and afraid, between her equally unsure and afraid fingers.

Sansa saw it through Petyr’s clothes: the long line slicing him in half. Tried to imagine him as the young, foolish boy who earned the scar in a sure attempt to win her mother's heart. And Sansa saw the way the lights had cast softness on Petyr's eyes now. The way he willed himself to be so  _ vulnerable  _ beneath Sansa's probing hands. The way he was careful – even when he was punishing her, fucking her, saying goodbye over and over – the silent motions asking her, begging her, to love him back.

How many people did Petyr Baelish let into his heart? He hardly seemed to let himself in it.

_ You _ . 

The bigger question wasn't whether or not Petyr loved her. That was painfully obvious now, even before his confession. 

The bigger question was whether Sansa was willing to admit her feelings. 

She ran a finger up and down the handle. Debating. 

There were so many unknowns. How would the Vale, and her family, react to the news of Lysa's death? How would Robert cope without his mother? How could she deal with her fake love for Harry, and the luring eyes of Myranda, and everyone who secretly wanted to shove her off her pedestal of perfection?

How could Sansa hide a relationship with her uncle, with a completely detestable man who dealt with carnal pleasures and committed murder without blinking? There were two long years before she graduated, and that didn't consider the prospects of a Master's. 

Was she willing to hide for that long. Willing to live with the fear that someone, anyone, could find out just as easily as Lysa had. 

And they couldn't as easily throw them off a mountain. 

“Thank you,” she began. “For dealing with Joffrey. And Ramsay.” A shiver ran down her spine remembering. She did her best to forget that night. 

“You're welcome, sweetling. Are you okay?”

For the most part, yes. Sansa nodded. “I should have listened to you.”

Petyr gave a weak smile at that. “You didn't. And you wouldn't have. I never listened when people said I shouldn't love your mother…” 

In that moment, Sansa was staring at herself. At the young girl with wide eyes and stories of knights filling her head. At the young girl with a wide smile and hoping for all the fairy tales to be true.

No wonder he was drawn to her.

And her? 

Sansa removed a hand from the mug and dragged it over the table, cautiously, resting it just shy of Petyr's. In a heartbeat, he grabbed it. 

“I don't know what will happen,” she began, licking lips, and staring at the join of their hands. His skin was so warm, so soft. Thumb brushed against the back of her palm. She missed the feeling, the sparks that such simple a touch sent through her body.

“I don't either, Sansa.”

That was it. The  _ way  _ he said her name. Full of longing. Full of hope. 

“Petyr–" 

She didn't finish her sentence, because she leaned over the table to pull his mouth to hers. Fisted her free hand in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. Petyr willingly obeyed, giving her as much ferocity in that kiss as she desired. Their hands still clasped atop the table. The thrumming of their hearts mirrored wherever they touched.

           He gave her everything she asked for that day. Never once did Petyr shy away when Sansa leaned in for a kiss – especially when he had his cock inside her, and their hips rolled in tandem. Not rushing. A gentle rhythm, a drawn-out kiss to make up for the months spent denying themselves that simple pleasure.

           They fucked with abandon later. Sansa asked him so sweetly for pain, and Petyr only smiled as he gifted her with the aches that reminded her that she was  _ alive _ . Sansa told him she finally decided on her own safe word – Lion – and not once that day did she use it. Between her pleas for  _ more _ and cries as she came, Sansa never once that day needed to. Never once that day doubted the affections received from the man she should shy away from.

           The man she pressed her body into, against. Slid onto him and let him explore.

           She rarely did use it in their future lessons. There was trust there, in and out of their flesh. 

           And the future had so many questions they decided  _ later _ . Later they would figure out how best to deal with Lysa’s mangled body. With the whispers of the Vale. With her family endlessly curious about the man who carefully crafted tears and sorrow when confronted with his wife’s tragic accident. With the issue of keeping Harry as a means to explain the lingering sin that sat deep on her flesh. 

           Petyr gave her his heart. And here she was, willingly giving him hers. If Sansa was a fool, then by the gods they were fools together.

           Sansa couldn’t be happier.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sometimes I feel bad for all the shit Lysa has gone through in fics. But other times I'm glad Petyr's there to push her.
> 
> Wow guys. It's over :(( I know I've said my thanks already, but another huge THANK YOU to everyone for reading and sticking with all the kink and drama to the very end! Honestly, you guys are the real MVP's.
> 
> Also I should mention that the fic title comes from the song “Dark Necessities” by Red Hot Chili Peppers.]


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